Calm
by mrpoohnminnie
Summary: Slight S5 spoilers. It's not always easy having the head that wears the crown, but Charles Carson, butler of Downton Abbey, finds a way to bear the burdens with greater ease. In so doing, he and Mrs. Hughes explore the possibility of existing not as a butler and housekeeper, but as individuals in their own right.
1. Chapter 1

Set slightly pre/during-S5, using one line of S5, Ep. 1 dialogue (but not in this chapter!). The line has stuck in my head and will not be dislodged. I decided to do something with it (in later chapters…). In so doing, I wanted to explore the marked change in the Chelsie demeanors. Here we go. This was hastily written tonight. Heaven help me for any typos. And finally, my blanket legal disclaimer is on my Author page. Please visit accordingly, you lurkers from Masterpiece Theatre, etc.

* * *

><p>There was a calmness about Charles Carson as he strode through the village. There was a perceptible lightness to his gait. A feeling of serenity imbued his countenance. Despite his concern about the state of politics and the continued antics of his underbutler and footmen, the butler of Downton Abbey was mellowing perceptibly. His gravitas and rigid adherence to manners and propriety persisted, but the hard edges of his stoic edifice were softening.<p>

Perhaps it was the consequence of age – his hair was growing more silver as the years pressed onwards, he squinted more and more as he made notations in the wine ledger. Perhaps it was the relief that flowed from the successful partnership between earl, daughter, and son-in-law. While other great estates were floundering, Downton remained standing strong. In reality it was all of those things, and more.

Charles Carson turned a new page in his life – he began taking half-days more often. If he was honest with himself, the number of half-days waiting in reserve amounted to months he could have spent away from the house. Something had always held him back, previously.

But now, he went to the pictures, read by the lake, and took tea in small shops in the village or in Ripon while reading the latest news. It was truly relaxing, just as Mrs. Hughes said it would be. He smiled at how she campaigned for him to utilize his time away from the house, time so diligently earned.

* * *

><p>It was just another evening sharing a nightcap in his pantry when she saw through his bluster. He was seated in front of his desk, she sat ramrod straight in his reading chair. In a dazzling instant, she identified the source of his unease with being away from the house.<p>

_"Mr. Carson, taking an afternoon to yourself doesn't lessen your devotion to this household. Visiting with members of the village, breathing in the fresh air by the lake, will do you some good."_

_"I don't see how visiting with members of the village will do me any good, Mrs. Hughes. They know me through dealings with the household."_

_"To be sure, they know the butler of Downton Abbey. But, what about the 'man'?"_

_"What about 'him'? I __am__ the butler."_

_"But you won't always be, and you don't always have to be right now, Mr. Carson," she remarked with a wave of the hand. "Just, be 'Mr. Carson', man." _

_"I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Hughes. They village seems to know enough of my life story as a 'man' as it is, including my life as a Cheerful Charlie," he reminded in a slightly morose tone._

_Then she realized it. His life had been lived in extremes – as a butler and as a Cheerful Charlie. The words were out of her mouth in an instant – quiet, challenging. "Or __can__ you be just 'Mr. Carson'?"_

_Save for his widening eyes, every muscle froze. The unwelcome truth – that the answer to her question was an unequivocal negative – lingered as an oppressive atmosphere. _

_But before the sting of her verbal lancing set in completely, she soothed his affronted ego with her honeyed tones. "I don't mean any harm, Mr. Carson. I only want the best for you."_

_His eyes challenged hers with hurt and anger before he turned away, almost immediately resigned. The lilt to her voice did as much as her steadfast, earnest interest in his wellbeing. But it didn't change the reality of things, not yet. _

_At last he spoke, quietly, looking off towards his side table under the interior window. "I know, Mrs. Hughes. I beg pardon."_

_As much as she ruffled his feathers, the final blow that caused him to relent from his refusal to take his half-days was not even directed at him. It was a revelation she made to herself, as much as to him._

_"I should be begging pardon, Mr. Carson. But the truth is, if you're reluctant to just be 'Mr. Carson,' I can understand that, more than you know." _

_He returned his gaze to her in an instant, intrigued and concerned. She didn't hold his eyes for long, focusing instead on the basket on his desk. "It is difficult for me, even, to part with the persona of Mrs. Hughes. I'm no more 'missus' than a maiden spinster or a wee bairn." It pained him to see her like that – so vulnerable. She needed steadying. _

_At the sight of her chewed lip and furrowed brow, he fought desperately against the wild impulse to take her hand, to tell her that he saw her as an individual – a woman. Ashamedly, he had first acknowledged to himself she was a breathing, vibrant woman when he thought she was on the brink of death. And now he had the memory of her warm hand in his. The housekeeper didn't take his hand on the beach in Brighton, Elsie Hughes did. She needed to know his beliefs._

_But that was for another time, a time when Charles Carson could speak, not Carson, Butler of Downton Abbey protected inside his pantry. Instead, he sighed into his small glass of sherry as he sat in front of his desk. "I'm bereft of excuses, Mrs. Hughes, I relent." _

_Upon looking tentatively at her under his furrowed brows, he was amply rewarded. Her softening expression flooded his chest with warmth, his mind with confidence. "You win, on one condition."_

_His look was challenging, if not playful. The side of her mouth unconsciously pulled upwards as she waited for his terms. _

_"I will take my half-day more often, unless a major event is just around the corner, provided you take your own half-day with more regularity." His raised eyebrows and lowered chin were as distracting as the twinkle in his eyes when he leveled his final admission. "Don't think I haven't noticed you skipping here and there." _

_Mrs. Hughes shook her head to prevent the spread of a nearly irrepressible, toothy smile. But she couldn't tamp down on her laughter. "I'm not sure if I would be the pot or the kettle," she admitted to his amused expression. She sighed inwardly. Elation filled her every pore as they successfully made it over a potentially rough patch. _

_Even if she hadn't admitted her own worries of being something other than Mrs. Hughes, she knew he would have noticed something was off. He did notice everything, even if he didn't always share his observations. If they could ever characterize what they shared as something beyond professional regard, his attentiveness would make him the most dedicated of friends._

_She smiled and breathed, "Alright, I agree. And we _both_ win, Mr. Carson." _

_They sealed their mutually-beneficial deal with a raised glass of sherry._

* * *

><p>Raising his gloved hand briefly, Charles Carson eyed his parcel with some satisfaction before he entered into the yard. Inside it rested two small confectioneries. They were from the tea shop Mrs. Hughes frequented in Ripon. It was quickly becoming his favorite place to take tea on his half-day.<p>

As he opened the back door that led to the downstairs labyrinth of Downton Abbey, he first set eyes on the housekeeper, walking with confident, clipped strides down the hallway towards her sitting room. Her smile was as warm as the fire no doubt building in the library fireplace upstairs.

"So you're back then, and before dark?"

He handed her the small package with a small smile as he rested his hat on the coat rack outside her door. Quickly becoming a new tradition, they would sample their imported desserts over sherry and discuss their latest excursions out into the world as mere individuals.

"The house party is coming soon, Mrs. Hughes. I don't have time to stay at the pictures all afternoon like someone else I know," he remarked with a glint in his eye. Truthfully, he was still uncomfortable with each half-day, but he stayed out a bit longer each time, until today.

"I'll ignore that, Mr. Carson, for once," she volleyed back as she entered her sitting room. "I still say you would have enjoyed _Through Fire and Water_."

He grunted in response. A pedestrian adventure film adapted from a third-rate novel. It was hardly likely, he thought, unless she was sitting there with him. Temporarily halting, his eyes widened slightly at the thought before his sense of propriety chased the idea away to deeper recesses in his mind.

Mrs. Hughes had missed his pause, having entered her room while he lingered at the threshold of her door. He was right, though. The house party would likely drag on, interrupting any opportunity for a half-day. Lady Mary had invited an endless string of visitors, compounded by potential suitors for Lady Rose, as well as old family friends wanting to see the grand estate.

Wanting to change for dinner, Mr. Carson had turned to move on when she called out with a fierce, gleeful whisper. "Maybe you can see _Bonnie Prince Charlie _in a few weeks." He turned back towards her, his cheeks reddening by the second. The way she said "Bonnie" with such indulgence and rolled the 'r' in 'Charlie' were delicious treats to his ears, even if they were said in jest.

Swallowing, he responded. "Maybe _you_ should see the film about the 'Young Pretender,' Mrs. Hughes."

"Perhaps I will, Mr. Carson. I'll be sure to take notes. Perhaps they just needed a Scottish woman at the helm to overthrow the King of England."

"No, I saw that film last month, Mrs. Hughes," he responded with a deep, indulgent tone of his own. "_The Loves of Mary, Queen of Scots_ didn't end well for that particular Scottish lass, if I recall correctly." He was being facetious and it was glorious.

The sound of Thomas ringing the dressing gong cut through their playful, airy display. They silently surrendered their verbal battle before he headed to his office. Mrs. Hughes had moved on to the Servant's Hall to see if all was well. As she turned to retreat back to her sitting room a few moments later, she observed an unthinkable sight.

There was nothing stately about Charles Carson treading up the stairs that evening. If she didn't already know the year of his birth, Mrs. Hughes would have mistaken him for a much younger man.

Walking back to her sitting room, she smiled at the wrapped package sitting on her side table. Mrs. Hughes was sure of one thing – she was in store for more than one treat that evening. Mr. Carson, man, was coming to take sherry with her over a confectionery surprise. She smiled sweetly at the thought.

* * *

><p>Someone STAHP me from writing the rest of this. My addled brain, completely avoiding my school work, is determined to establish a backstory as to the S5, Ep. 1 one line "No one needs to know everything…" This is…. so difficult.<p>

A/N 1: _Bonnie Prince Charlie_ is a 1923 film about Charles Edward Stuart, the romantic, Scottish-blood figure that believed he was the Jacobean heir to the Kingdom of Great Britain. His attempted overthrow in 1745-46, obviously, did not go well. Two of his modern-ish nicknames are "Bonnie Prince Charlie," and the "Great Pretender."

A/N 2: _The Loves of Mary_ is also a 1923 film. I resisted the temptation to make a Lady Mary joke about 'Mary's Men.' That was also insanely difficult.


	2. Chapter 2

I would be lying if I said the picture from the new Downton Abbey book featuring our favorite duo didn't influence me today. If you want to see the picture, search "#carsonxhughes" in Tumblr. It should probably come up as one of the more recent results. When you find the one of Mr. Carson holding a tea cup with a beaming Mrs. Hughes looking back at him, you might guess that it inspired a few lines below.

* * *

><p>Elsie Hughes quickly headed for the post office, concerned about whether she could make the bus into Ripon. Mr. Carson had requested she acquire some stamps on her half-day, but only if she had the time. She hadn't anticipated one of her maids impeding her ability to leave that afternoon. Moreover, she didn't think she would have such a long chat with one of the local merchants. But she had made a promise to Mr. Carson and she was determined to keep it.<p>

In reality, the chat had been most telling. She had listened with secret delight to the manner in which Mr. Carson had successfully resolved an issue between two merchants. Mr. Carson's efforts to further integrate into village society were bearing fruit. She couldn't be prouder.

With that thought, she headed into the post office with a small smile only to sober at the scene that greeted her. At the sound of the bell ringing when the door opened, the steady chatter in the background came to a jagged halt. Mrs. Wigan, the postmistress, had been holding court to a small gaggle of female villagers.

"Ah, Mrs. Hughes, good afternoon," Mrs. Wigan called out from behind her counter before looking at her court. The other women before her were looking down at the floor or out the window. They looked anywhere, except for Mrs. Hughes.

Though she was earnest in her effort to not feel like the housekeeper during her time off, she felt acutely that she was playing the ever stern housekeeper to these older versions of whispering housemaids. Something was afoot. "Mrs. Wigan, ladies, good afternoon," Mrs. Hughes responded serenely before going about her business.

The stamps secured, Elsie Hughes managed to arrive at the bus stop before her ride to Ripon arrived. As she waited momentarily, she looked towards the direction of the post office with narrowed eyes and a ghost of a smile. She anticipated a most interesting conversation with Mr. Carson that night.

* * *

><p>The light was beginning to tinge a brilliant amber in the library as the afternoon wore on. While it wasn't his half-day off, Charles Carson took a moment to reflect on his time spent away from the abbey. He tried not to be distracted by the thought as he served tea to the family, but now he was alone. With each hour spent away from the abbey, Charles Carson had realized he desperately needed the respite – time away from everyone, even Mrs. Hughes, however briefly.<p>

On some ventures, he saw the world that captivated the younger generations, sending them in droves from the great country estates into the factories and shops. Often, he engaged with members of the village, speaking to them not as a representative of the house, but as an individual. Though he did not become a regular at the pub or a steady participant in church activities, the villagers were noticeably keener to halt his progress through the village for a brief chat.

Small skirmishes were sorted with his observations and formal geniality. His abilities were not lost on anyone, least of all the village postmistress. Uncomfortable with the attention, he soon took to having others acquire stamps for him in the village. It was what prompted to ask Mrs. Hughes for assistance that morning. He smiled at the thought of her.

The housekeeper, no, the woman that was Downton Abbey's housekeeper, he corrected himself, would return later that evening. It had been quite a production trying to get her out the door earlier that day. She had selflessly suggested he use the afternoon to take his own time off before the guests arrived in a few days.

The thought was absurd and terribly generous of her. But he was having none of it. Unthinkably, he joked.

_"It's alright, Mrs. Hughes. You don't have to admit that you simply don't want me around for a few hours every other week. I'll just know the truth in my heart," he goaded._

_Her eyes widened slightly at his flirtatious retort. Every sense heightened and her cheeks were turning pink. _

_He would have crumpled at one more second of silence, beginning an endless round of apologies for his remarks. But she filled the void._

_"Your heart can believe whatever it pleases, Mr. Carson," she responded with a breathless tone to her voice and small smile. Her eyes were brimming with amusement and anxiety. Fearing a retreat was in store, she bid Mr. Carson a good afternoon before securing her hat and heading out the back door._

The thought remained with him through the tea service - he hadn't wanted her breathless tone, her flush, to recede away. With that flippant remark, he had revealed Elsie Hughes, the woman. He endeavored to seek her out, to find ways to allow Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes to exist on the same plane, together.

The servant in his mind began to join forces with the individual growing within his soul, using his observations of her – now and over the years – to learn how to make her smile. The clues had been there for ages, but he had ignored them using the guise of professionalism and the open wound of his brush with young love. Now, he was just learning when and how such moments occurred. That he was deliberately responsible for some of those occasions that set her eyes glowing made every step lighter as he surveyed each room on the main floors.

Of course, he never wanted to push too far and set her on edge. Lord knows he was fully capable of eliciting her ire with a growl or a grimace towards the staff. Her fiery eyes, if it was possible, would singe his livery. But her glimmering eyes, full of warmth, were a visible feast that mixed dazzlingly with her light laughter, filling the air in his pantry.

Simply saying yes – to a few hours to himself every once in a while – produced that exact effect. Her warm, welcoming expression with his each departure and return was enough to keep his half-days a regular affair.

In turn, their conversations over sherry entered into a new dimension. Beyond the essential household matters needed sorting, they would discuss the pictures each had seen separately, comment on the quality of a dessert at a given tea shop, or provide directions to a new path or lane one managed to find amongst the familiar towns nearby.

Sighing, Charles Carson turned for the green baize door. He was pleased that his persistence led to Mrs. Hughes enjoying her half-days more frequently. Yet, it didn't chase away the feeling of missing her in the Servant's Hall at tea time. Her chair would usually remain empty and it took great pains to not look at it while the younger staff droned on about the latest band playing at the tea dance.

He didn't try to dwell on the faintly empty feeling. In fact he studiously avoided it. He only acknowledged the feeling often reoccurred during dull moments in London during the Season. But he did think with some optimism to the evenings when the staff went up to bed. Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes, not that they would ever address themselves in that manner, would have their treat and discuss their new discoveries. He walked downstairs, taking a steadying breath as he went.

Heading to the kitchen to secure a cup of tea, he was surprised to find Mrs. Hughes returned and dressed in her grey uniform. He waited to address her until Mrs. Patmore had busied herself and he had secured his cup and saucer.

"That wasn't much of a half-day, Mrs. Hughes," he remarked as he trailed back into his pantry. She followed his retreat, finding him standing just before his reading chair with his back to her.

"As you said, Mr. Carson, the house party is upon us. I couldn't justify being out any longer with the first guests arriving in two days."

As much as it disappointed him that she had to cut her outing short, he appreciated her professionalism, as always.

"It is, unfortunately," he agreed before turning to face her. His attention had been focused on preparing his tea and had missed her coming closer.

Her face was alight with an impish grin, a clever comment no doubt waiting on her tongue. He looked indulgently down into her blue eyes, a response already ready on his lips.

He didn't have long to wait. "Were you worried I didn't have time to go into Ripon to get you a dessert, Mr. Carson?"

His eyes twinkled in response. "Only partly."

"It's in my siting room," she finally admitted. He smiled before taking a small sip from his cup. "Aren't you interested in whether I got you your stamps?"

He sheepishly responded after gulping. "Ah yes, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you for that."

She stared at him appraisingly for a moment. Somewhat uncomfortable with her gaze, he turned to seek safety behind his desk. "I'll be happy to repay you over sherry."

"Sherry and a treacle tart, Mr. Carson."

He relaxed at the thought and her quick departure.

* * *

><p><em>That evening.<em>

Their treacle tarts devoured, Elsie Hughes decided Mr. Carson was subdued enough for the next topic of conversation.

The coins he owed her were traded without a word earlier. But now, Mrs. Hughes asked if the stamps were sufficient. His momentary weariness before responding affirmatively was all she needed to proceed.

"Mrs. Wigan was most revealing today," she began obliquely.

"Is that so," he asked with a faint of trepidation.

"Indeed, Mr. Carson. She asked after you when I bought the stamps. It would appear she knows the almost exact date for when you need a new book."

He didn't respond but for a raised eyebrow and a quick sip of his sherry.

"I think she fancies you."

He sputtered into his glass. "What?"

"You obviously heard what I said, Mr. Carson." She found absurd pleasure in the way he squirmed, his shoulder rolling perceptibly as he grappled with her observation.

"Mrs. Wigan is a…" he blustered to a halt.

Mrs. Hughes couldn't tamp down her obvious delight. "Yes, Mr. Carson?"

"Mrs. Wigan is a…"

"Pushy woman, Mr. Carson?"

"Yes," he answered and observed as he breathed through his teeth. It was with mild amusement that he realized he loathed the pushy woman in the village but secretly thrilled at the prodding of the woman before him.

"I don't blame you for not wanting to get your own stamps, Mr. Carson. She has been a widow for a few years now, and she obviously regards you, quite highly."

"Even so, Mrs. Hughes, that doesn't change the fact that I barely tolerate her presence."

"That's rather harsh," Mrs. Hughes remarked with guile.

His eyes widened as steam practically billowed out of him. "You just characterized her as a pushy, and yet I am apparently not at liberty to speak my own mind?"

"You have every liberty to speak your own mind, Mr. Carson. I am merely surprised at your decided thoughts on the matter. What has she ever done to you?"

He shook his head at her question. "I can't even believe we're having this conversation."

She tilted her head at his common retort to all things he felt uncomfortable discussing. "I couldn't say why," she said with a flick of her wrist. She looked and spoke flippantly. "We share things, Mr. Carson. It's not as if we're not…" she trailed off, nearly forgetting herself amongst their banter.

"It's not as if we're not… what?" He asked, daring her, afraid to fill in the blank himself.

She swallowed as she spoke the truth, her eyes holding his bravely, seriously. "Confidants."

His eyes lowered in contemplation as he breathed deeply. Repeating the word in his mind as if he were tasting and testing a bottle of wine from an untested vintage. It played about his mouth even as the word chased through his mind and soul. It defined them, trusted friends sharing everything and nothing. Yet, it was an incomplete characterization – that he understood in an instant.

The muscles of his face slackened at the realization. Mrs. Hughes was immediately concerned.

"Confidants." He cleared his throat before his features brightened again, mechanically. He forced a nod in her direction and even a small smile.

Mrs. Hughes sighed. Another hurdle crossed, yet another obstacle put in its place. Naming each other as confidants should have brought them closer. After all, the walls of her sitting room or his pantry seemed to be the edge of their own private world as their shared nights after a half-day off grew longer and longer.

Yet as he repeated "confidants," she could feel a new, invisible barrier between them. His forced smile confirmed it. It wasn't unwelcome necessarily, merely unknown.

Claiming mutual fatigue, their nightcap ended soon after.

In the coming days, the house party was in full swing, leaving little opportunity to explore whether the new barrier brought the confidants slightly closer or kept them further apart.

* * *

><p>If you have the time, please spare a review. I'd love to know your thoughts about the new Chelsie demeanor in S5!<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a monstrous number of weeks. Downton Abbey was host to the house party that wouldn't end, fouling up any opportunity for either of them to seek out their solitary solace beyond the grounds.

With every bit of self-control, Charles Carson managed to prevent a loud sigh of relief billowing out of him as the last car departed from the front drive. Instead, he directed his footman to return to their normal tasks. He stood for a moment outside the grand house, surveying the green before turning to face the imposing edifice. The yellowed stone survived yet another great test. The staff that kept its lights burning and windows shining ensured it was a memorable treat for family and guests.

Even the butler had to admit that his staff had handled everything quite well despite the inability to have a moment's rest. Charles Carson, however, was strained. He missed the fresh air as he wandered towards the village on the way to another adventure. In reality, he missed the opportunity to discuss his latest find with his confidant.

Heading back inside, he began to organize the morning post that remained ignored by the family due to the time it took to see off the last members of the house party. It was clear some members of the family were quite keen to return to their normal routines, Lord Grantham, especially. But Lady Grantham, it would appear, had other plans in store. She found the butler at the table devoted to the post just inside the main hall.

"Carson, please thank the staff for their patience – there were so many changes with this party, and even more demands, it seemed."

"Of course, my lady, and if I might add, they handled it quite admirably despite the fatigue brought on by the last few days, especially." Lady Rose had insisted a few suitors stay around for a few more days to no avail. Carson was professional as ever as he included his addendum, but there was a slight edge to his voice.

It made Lady Grantham pause. "Carson, I know that this party inconvenienced you, as well." She titled her head while asking with concern, "When was your last half-day?" His mouth opened slightly as he moved his hands to rest behind him. Her question discombobulated him. While uncomfortable speaking about himself to the family, he was flattered by Lady Grantham's obvious concern.

"It was some time before the first visitor arrived, my lady. But, please do not trouble yourself with my time off."

Lady Grantham knew the butler was utilizing his time away from the household with greater frequency. His absence was palpable at tea time on the days he was on his own. Even more so, his manner was slightly less harsh as he directed his footmen in the days that followed. Everyone benefited despite the momentary inconvenience.

"Then why don't you take your half-day this afternoon, Carson? You have more than earned it," she remarked, imbued with delight at the prospect of finding a way to thank the butler for his diligence.

It was Carson's turn to be concerned. Despite a bow and half-smile, he bristled. "That is very kind of you, my lady, but that would prevent Mrs. Hughes from taking her half-day. It would normally occur this afternoon. As you know, I'm sure, she has also been without the opportunity to spend some time away from the estate."

Lady Grantham looked upon the butler with narrow eyes and pursed lips. Her fondness for the butler and housekeeper was well-established. She came to a decision easily before smiling triumphantly.

"Then you both shall take your half-day this afternoon. Mr. Barrow can manage, as can Mrs. Patmore and Anna if it comes to that. Madge can tend to the girls."

Cora Crawley was nothing if not decided and pleased. Carson was reeling, "But, your ladyship, we couldn't possibly…"

"My mind is made up, Carson. I do not want to see you at dinner and I certainly do not want to hear you spent afternoon having tea with the staff. Go – you deserve it, and let Mrs. Hughes know that her half-day is secure."

Cora Crawley did not wait for a blustering response from the butler before proceeding to catch up on her correspondence.

* * *

><p>Charles Carson bounded down the stairs with surprising vigor, but slowed his gait soon after. A thought hurtled through his brain as he went through the green baize door only to be met with anxiety when he reached the bottom of the stairs. Still, he remained focused on his ultimate destination. Mouth open and focused intently on the horizon before him, he headed down the corridor past the open doors of his office.<p>

Peering through the odd angle of her open door, he concentrated on the sun shining brightly on the upswept, dark auburn locks of Elsie Hughes. Unconsciously, his tongue darted out slightly to lick his lower lip as he prepared himself for the impending conversation that could go only one of two ways: very well, or truly awful.

His steady knocking on her door threshold halted her sorting through stacks of receipts that had piled up during the house party. Her inquisitive expression dissolved into a smile as she discovered the identity of her visitor. But upon seeing his discombobulated state, her automatic smile wilted at the edges.

"You'll never guess the conversation I just had, Mrs. Hughes," he began with a huff. The last few weeks had been trying and it showed.

Undeterred, she reaffixed her smile with a tilt to her head. Her hands, now clasped, rested in her lap. "Perhaps you'll tell me, then."

His right cheek tugged without volition as he asked, "Perhaps I tell you over tea in Ripon this afternoon?"

She gasped at his question, thinking him slightly mad. It was no wonder, too, given the endless, tiring duration of the house party.

Recovering, she teased out their repartee a bit further. "Well I had hoped to visit my usual tea room in Ripon, Mr. Carson, but I don't gather how you would be there at the same time."

She was being deliberately obtuse and he unwittingly adored her for it. "Along with ensuring you have your half-day as planned, Lady Grantham ordered me to take my half-day this afternoon." Elsie Hughes kept silent for a moment as she focused on disguising her utter delight. When panic swept over his features, her restless hands froze.

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes, if you'd rather spend your half-day on your own, I wouldn't dream of intruding…"

"Don't be daft, Mr. Carson. We visit the same tea room each time we go to Ripon, do we not?"

"Yes, but on our own," he conceded as he shuffled near her door. His momentary bout of courage gone, his discomfort was palpable.

Looking back on the moment, Elsie Hughes wasn't able to explain to herself why she rose from her chair to stand closer to him. Whether to comfort or simply be nearer to her confidant, she closed the distance between them with a slow but steady pace.

"Well, I think I can manage tea with you for an afternoon, if you're game."

He sighed, relieved and worried in the same instant. He bent his arms in a slightly akimbo fashion. His left arm, moving to tug at his waistcoat temporarily, soothed his nerves before he answered, "I'm 'game,' as you so put it, Mrs. Hughes."

Confidence returning at her growing smile, his left arm relaxed. As he loosely clenched his right hand while his forearm nearly brushed his side, he asked, "Shall we start out to Ripon after luncheon?"

His enthusiasm was contagious, causing Mrs. Hughes to lose temporary control over her motor skills. Without a thought for or against the action, her left hand reached out to his forearm, giving a light squeeze as she responded, "Of course, Mr. Carson." Mrs. Hughes retracted her hand in the same instant, her smile muting but not receding entirely.

His face froze as his free hand swung just once at his side. He willed his limb to still, desperate to not reveal his utter surprise at being touched by her so deliberately and without any pretense. True, she had gently brushed her hand on his chest, leading him through hallways. He had briefly placed his hand against the small of her back, guiding her through throngs of church-goers. But this was more intimate, more familiar. _Perhaps this is how confidants behave,_ he weakly lied to himself. They were something else, that much was clear. But what they were exactly, he had no name for it, not yet.

"Until then, Mrs. Hughes," he managed before turning and heading out of her office.

Despite feeling very warm and very confused, Charles Carson walked a little taller for the short distance back to his pantry. Closing the last of his open doors, he leaned on it with one hand momentarily as he tried to sort through his thoughts.

One fact was clear to him. Things were going very well for Charles Carson, so far. He hoped his luck would fare equally well that afternoon.

* * *

><p>A bit of a teaser chapter, but I did want to ensure you all that Chelsie-time outside the house was forthcoming! And, for most of you, Happy Downton Day!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

A timing note: I'm trying to work gently towards the King's radio broadcast as heard during S5Ep2. That occurred in late April 1924. Accordingly, this story started off in early 1924. The following chapters take place in early-mid March 1924.

* * *

><p>The air was slightly biting as Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes disembarked from the bus in the main square at Ripon. It wasn't a market day, leaving the area open and prone to gusts during the cold afternoon despite the shining sun. They opted to inspect the latest films showing in the small movie house situated along the square. The next film would start in just under an hour with another following shortly after.<p>

It was for the best, as the gnawing stomach of Charles Carson was governed by old habits. They had started off late that afternoon and it was nearing a mealtime. Though he didn't want to dictate their afternoon together, he had to ask.

"Tea?"

"Tea, Mr. Carson."

* * *

><p>Each step, each breath was lighter as they walked down familiar, curving pathways. Outwardly, they looked the same, but inwardly, they were nearly brimming with pleasure to be out of the house, breathing in fresh air, and simply being together.<p>

The sounds of merchants moving about, of shop door bells ringing with entering and exiting customers and car horns in the distance, filled the easy silence between them.

They moved with orchestrated ease, which was no surprise despite having never walked the same path towards the tea shop together. There wasn't a puddle in the Ripon streets requiring him to shield an errant splash from Mrs. Hughes. Yet with each switching of streets, they would cross each other without a moment's hesitation to allow him to walk along the outer edge of the sidewalk. It was instinct, a dance without music guided by the rhythm developed from a lifetime spent working and living beside each other.

They continued that way for a few more minutes until they slowed before a small, familiar store front. With a noticeable degree of gallantry, Charles Carson held the door open for Elsie Hughes. Flashing him an amused look in response before heading inside, she missed his gloved hand raise and nearly touch the small of her back. It would have been so easy to let it rest there, to guide his confidant or otherwise through the door. But he had a feeling that would invite something new and strange, something beyond what he could handle during their most unusual afternoon. He swallowed and straightened before walking into familiar territory.

The woman that usually greeted them was confused by their simultaneous arrival. Nevertheless, she directed them to a table by the window.

Early on in their nightcaps following a half-day out, Mrs. Hughes had mentioned her exact table and chair to Mr. Carson after he had inquired as to why she enjoyed that particular tea shop. A vision of the Ripon Cathedral dominated the view from her favorite seat. It was easy to see why she favored it. But he often chose to sit opposite her favorite chair at her preferred table on his solitary visits. He ducked his head, trying to studiously ignore why he sat opposite the chair he could only characterize as hers.

Charles Carson took his time removing his bowler hat and gloves, placing them on the small hook and ledge on the wall behind him. When he turned around to seat himself, he tried not to completely halt his movements. Seeing her sitting there, just as he had pictured her over countless cups of tea, gave him an overwhelming sensation.

It didn't go unnoticed.

But his look was gone in an instant, covered up by the formality he employed to commence ordering their tea.

They were soon left alone amongst the small din of muffled voices and rattling china. She could feel his unease. He fidgeted at the table, moving about the spoon and napkin on the table cloth with distracting exaction. _Old habits_, she thought while sighing inwardly.

Elsie Hughes did not intend to spend her half-day in the murky atmosphere that descended out of nowhere.

"Well, out with it," she gently commanded in her soft yet strong way.

He had been looking anywhere but her, yet he stilled when she finally spoke. What he wanted to say and what he could say were quite different things. His thoughts, though highly private, were irrepressible. Even with what he thought he could manage to say, Elsie Hughes would never ridicule him. He wondered why that was so.

Her eyes called out to him. He could delay no longer. Clearing his throat, he wanted nothing but a spot of tea with a dash of brandy in it to fortify his nerves. "Well, it's surreal," Charles Carson began, still unsure of sharing his thoughts, even with her.

Her head tilted at his thought. "To be here together? Not so surreal, I hope."

Charles Carson shuffled in his chair uncharacteristically, his shoulder dipping with noticeable discomfort. Elsie Hughes wanted nothing but to reach out across the table and squeeze his hand. But she had learned her lesson earlier that morning. Being a confidant was becoming more complicated. Commiserating, she decided, was the best option.

"I have to confess, Mr. Carson, it is certainly unexpected. And yet, it's familiar, all the same."

He held her gaze – cautiously intrigued. "'Familiar,' Mrs. Hughes?"

Before she could answer, their tea was soon served. He sighed inwardly, thinking with rueful awareness that so many conversations like this were interrupted by a maid or footman. He would be a very rich man if he had a penny for each aborted conversation he tried to have with the woman sitting before him.

Her smile was affixed as she readied the tea. "Yes, familiar Mr. Carson."

Adding a dash of milk to his tea then hers, he could tell she was deep in thought. He waited.

This is the part he lived for. Despite all the interruptions in their lives, this conversation was not going to end with one of them dashing away to fix someone else's problems. Here they were, alone, without an ounce of responsibility to weigh them down. Instead, they were held happily captive by whatever they shared between them.

He held his breath as he used his fork to break off a bit of his favorite treat from the tea shop.

_Confidants wouldn't have such a struggle with deciding whether to share such private thoughts_, Elsie Hughes thought. She took a long, fortifying sip of her now perfect cup of tea. She started, staring at the apple tart before her while adjusting the plate on the table.

"Well, it's just… sometimes when I'm here on my own, trying a new dessert, I wonder about what you'd think about it. And when I do," she paused to finally seek out his face, his eyes now looking back at her intently. "I see you in my mind, sitting just as you are."

_I think of you far more often than that_, she thought. She felt stupidly brazen for revealing her private thoughts. Despite all that they shared, this kind of flanneling remained secreted away until now.

Blinking, his eyes lowered, overcome with the knowledge that she thought of him in such an innocent yet intimate manner. If she only knew how often he did the exact same thing.

Swallowing, she laughed slightly before reaching to sip her tea again. "It's silly, really."

He stared at her, unreadable save for his swallowing, the clenching of his jaw. She had crossed a line with her sentimentality, of that she was sure. She was the hare to his tortoise. How she wanted to run ahead and hide.

"Not so silly, Mrs. Hughes, unless you think me doing the same could be characterized as silly." He didn't bother to look up as he arranged another bit of his dessert on his fork and quickly tasted it.

Mrs. Hughes followed suit with a small smile on her face thinking with some delight, _The tortoise can move faster than I thought he could_. Her head was lowered. Her hand was raised so that her fork hovered slightly above her apple tart.

"Silly confidant," she muttered with amusement as she raised her chin to daringly meet his face. "That will never do, will it, Mr. Carson?"

Incapable of responding with words, Charles Carson could only gently shake his head before looking out the window with an irrepressible smile. When he finally collected himself, he switched conversation topics. They commenced with a spirited conversation of film adaptations and beloved novels, continuing their discussion even after they departed the tea shop in the fading afternoon light.

* * *

><p>The good news is, there are at least 3 more chapters after this. The bad news is, the next chapter is giving me fits (while the other two sit waiting to be shared with you!). I'll see if I can bang it out tonight. Who needs to research a seminar paper? Oh wait, that's me.<p>

Drop a line if you can! I'd love to read your thoughts on their tea!


	5. Chapter 5

Please be sure you read the previous chapter (I posted it late Friday afternoon, US time zones!) Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Walking a short distance from the tea room, Elsie Hughes and Charles Carson were at a crossroads. At the terminus of Kirkgate and the small intersection before the Ripon Cathedral, Mr. Carson brought up what they could do next – a walk, or a film.<p>

As for motion pictures, their choices were limited. They could return immediately to the market square to watch _The Starlit Garden_ or they could take a stroll and wait until the next film started. "What do you say, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I thought the _Starlit Garden_ was supposed to be set in America, not Italy," she remarked thinking of the film poster on the theater's ticket window. "Did you ever read the novel?"

"No, I can't say that I have," he remarked while readjusting his bowler hat.

"Well, perhaps we should go with the American choice that's about to start, even though it's set in Paris."

He grimaced comically at the thought. "You're corrupting me, Mrs. Hughes."

"Not corrupting you," she teased knowingly. "You wanted to see _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ at any rate."

He couldn't tell if the rosiness in her cheeks was from the cold or her merriment. Either way, it was most becoming. "And how would you know that?"

"By the fact that you have your own personal copy of the novel in your pantry, Mr. Carson," she concluded triumphantly.

He bowed in surrender, "A walk first, then." Navigating the connection to Kings Street, they headed down the hill towards a place he knew Mrs. Hughes enjoyed. She had told him so some weeks before.

"It's unfortunate I don't have my copy of _Notre Dame_ on me. We could have skipped the film and reenacted the novel at the cathedral back up the road," he joked uncharacteristically.

She turned her head immediately when he mentioned reenacting the novel.

"I doubt I would have made a very good Esmeralda, Mr. Carson."

"Well, we'll never know, shall we?"

With a high-pitched tone, she responded with delight. "Get away with you!"

Before he could even think to respond, they waited for a few cars to pass by on the street that stood between them and their destination: the path that ran along the meandering River Skell. The sun was starting to set as they walked slowly towards the west.

They didn't speak for a time. Content, they silently enjoyed sharing something they both experienced separately, save for the vision of each other that accompanied them on solitary visits on their usual half-days.

Their progress was slow as they stopped and watched the softly churning currents of nature. It was the only thing that kept them from staring openly at each other. Elsie Hughes smiled to herself, _How silly we would look_. They certainly wouldn't have looked like mere confidants.

"There!" he exclaimed with boyish glee. Awakened from her reverie, Elsie Hughes looked onto the river towards the direction conveyed by his slightly outstretched arm. A fish was swimming near the surface, darting about much to the delight of Charles Carson.

He missed her adoring look as he assessed the river with an angler's eye.

"When was the last time you went fishing, Mr. Carson?"

"It's been a while, why?" His enthusiasm dampened as he looked back at her, remembering himself and his surroundings.

"No reason, Mr. Carson. You're a rather patient man. I reckon it would suit you."

He looked back at the river, smiling sanguinely. "It depends on the fish," he remarked.

"Supposing it was worthwhile, then, I reckon the sport would suit you."

"It's not a sport, Mrs. Hughes. It's a mindset."

"A mindset? That sounds rather progressive," she goaded.

"Perish the thought, Mrs. Hughes," he responded immediately and with bluster. Whether she intended to discuss politics or not, he didn't let their newly revealed differences on that score become a topic of conversation as the sun began to set. Instead, he smiled slightly as they walked along in silence again, moving past the bend in the river until hearing the Cathedral bells toll a quarter till the hour.

Pulling out his pocket watch, he looked back at Mrs. Hughes with a pointed look of mild alarm, he uttered, "Shall we?"

She nodded her assent before they walked up yet another hill to return to the market square.

* * *

><p>Excitement had spurred them to sit closely after rushing to find open seats in the theatre. Anxiety soon took over during the rolling of the titles, feeding the conclusion they were perhaps too close yet could hardly separate in the crowded theatre. But at the first vision of the famed Notre Dame cathedral, they both relaxed, transfixed by the images flickering across the screen.<p>

A few moments had passed when he heard her quietly gasp along with other audience members. Lon Chaney had just made his first appearance as Quasimodo. Though known for his theatrical disguises, he barely looked like the man everyone had seen on the movie poster outside. Charles Carson had seen far worse on the halls but could concede Mr. Chaney made for a horrible sight, perfect for the character being depicted. The actor seemed buried underneath a pile of makeup and prosthetics - oppressed.

Charles Carson looked down at Elsie Hughes as an intertitle explained the plight of Quasimodo for those not well-versed in the novel. His confidant was similarly well-read, yet she remained focused on the screen. Her eyes were dancing with the flickering lights as her mouth hung open slightly – he was dazzled.

She felt but did not see his inquisitive, admiring gaze rake across her features. By the time she looked back towards him, his attention returned to the screen and the masterful performance unfolding. Set off against the dark walls of the theatre, she observed Charles Carson's striking profile. A small smile played about his face and he looked relaxed. It suited him, she thought with a sigh.

Rotating back to the picture, she allowed herself to be immersed for the most part. If anything, nothing could spoil the simple fact that they simply were sharing yet another experience on this most unexpected half-day away from their normal lives.

* * *

><p>Well over an hour later, they emerged from the dark theatre to encounter a cool, lamp-lit evening. Pleased with their choice of film, they steadfastly ignored their near-miss glances that unexpectedly accompanied their viewing of the film. Time was growing short, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes acknowledged to themselves.<p>

They walked the short distance to where the last bus would soon arrive to take them back to the village. Passing the time, they renewed their conversation from tea, discussing the picture and Victor Hugo's novel.

"Was it just me, or did Mr. Chaney's hairy hands become not so hairy near the end of the film," he asked with interest.

"I believe they did. I doubt Mr. Hugo would have approved."

"Nor did, I, Mrs. Hughes. Nor did I."

"Otherwise, it was pretty good."

He hummed his agreement before his tone turned light. Had she not been looking in his general direction to see his features tense, she would have thought he was positively lighthearted. But she knew better. He eventually asked, "Was it better than the last picture you saw?"

It was a roundabout way of asking if she enjoyed spending at least some of their time together. It was all she was likely to get. Even with him now facing away, surveying the open space of the marketplace, she made the most of it.

She took in his profile again, his cheeks pink from the cold and eyes dark in the dim light. He didn't observe her own flushed cheeks and dancing eyes when she finally answered, "It was infinitely better, Mr. Carson."

Remembering themselves amongst the small throng around the bus stop, they both watched the arrival of the Ripon hornblower beneath the imposing obelisk that dominated the marketplace. Neither had ever remained in Ripon long enough to observe this hallowed custom, and they wouldn't on this evening, either. By the time the clock finally struck nine, they were already on their way back to Downton. If they strained, they could hear the horn blowing faintly in the distance as they moved closer to home.

* * *

><p>The ride back to the village was dark, lit as dim as the cinema they had recently departed.<p>

But it didn't bother Charles Carson. He found the darkness comforting, disinhibiting in a way. It was in the pitch-blackness of his bedroom where he promised to himself that one day he would summon the courage to move past the nagging idea of being confidants with the woman sitting next to him.

Words would be required. Admissions would need to be made. There would be time for that, or so he hoped.

Fortunate to have a few others on the bus, he knew he wouldn't let loose and admit his hopes and fears on a public bus between Ripon and Downton. He took solace in feeling her warmth beside him on the bench seat. He let out a contented sigh-hum at the thought.

Elsie Hughes nearly started at the low, near-growl emanating from her silly confidant. His proximity was almost identical to how they sat for over an hour in small, cramped theatre. But something was different.

Here, nothing could distract her from the occasional brush of his upper arm against her shoulder. As they pulled into the small village of Topcliffe, Elsie Hughes had begun to replay the day in her mind. Silences and pauses dotted the afternoon, but there were never uneasy moments, at least not for long. As much as she appreciated the man seated to her left, she was half-amazed at the fact that they managed to navigate the half-day without a moment of discord generated by his formality, her singular mind, or politics. Instead they had covered significant ground that day, literally and figuratively.

Caught up in the delight of successfully avoiding disaster, Elsie Hughes hardly registered the bus turning back towards the main road that would take them to Downton. The driver was careless in his progress, veering briefly off the paved road. When the driver corrected himself, bringing the large vehicle back to the pavement, the bus rocked violently.

Elsie Hughes lurched forward, caught completely off guard. She grabbed for anything around her to steady herself. As the bus lumbered calmly onwards, the shock wore off eventually. As her rapidly beating heart began to calm, she looked down to find her clutching the top of Charles Carson's gloved right hand - firmly.

With wide eyes, she tried to remove her hand but he stopped her progress by gently patting her forearm with his free hand.

Emboldened by the memory of her flirtatious words from the beach, he leaned to whisper in her ear, "I thought you were supposed to steady me, Mrs. Hughes."

She blinked rapidly at his remark before laughing breathlessly for a moment. But they both sobered when they realized their hands were still intertwined. The moment turned from comic to something unknown.

Glancing down at their clasped hands, both were unwilling and unable to alter the course their bodies now took. Charles Carson's slender right thumb gently caressed her little finger. She remained mesmerized as his large hand slowly turned under hers, moving to completely encapsulate her small hand. The cold night had threatened to creep into her bones until that point, but warmth radiated from their joined hands to every part of her.

Somewhere in the deep recesses of their minds, each wanted to remove their gloves to feel the soft skin of the others. But instead, their torsos pulled slightly away from each other as their hands remained clasped.

Their eyes locked and everything else faded away.

The exact hue of blue and hazel was masked by the darkness. But it was no matter in this moment. It was enough for them to know – simply know – something was changing between them.

Unable to strain to look and assess for much longer, they turned to face forward again as the bus kept moving closer to home. But they remained transfixed - eyes lowered in fascination at their intertwined hands - until the bus finally arrived in their village several minutes later.

Reluctantly, he let go of her hand after he helped her from the steps of the bus. Before they could even think, to acknowledge what just transpired, a car stopped alongside them. It was Mr. Branson.

* * *

><p>"I thought that was you, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes. Good evening," Mr. Branson called out cheerfully.<p>

"Good evening, Mr. Branson," Charles Carson responded formally. "We just returned from Ripon."

"Lady Grantham had mentioned she ordered you to take your half-day."

"Ordered is perhaps too strong a word, Mr. Branson. Her ladyship did ensure I had my half-day along with Mrs. Hughes."

Not wanting to quibble words, Mr. Branson employed generosity. "I've just come from dinner at the pub with a few tenants. Would you care for a lift home?"

Emotions were swirling inside the pair standing before the waiting car. But an engrained sense of politeness spurred Mrs. Hughes to respond.

"If Mr. Carson doesn't mind, I would appreciate it, Mr. Branson."

Torn between exhaustion and nerves, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes silently agreed to a distraction from a well-meaning interloper. Perhaps it would bring clarity, they hoped with faint hope. Once they stepped foot in the Abbey, their lives would belong to others, not themselves. But that was their reality.

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes. That is most generous of you, Mr. Branson."

Unthinkably, Charles Carson didn't lead her to the front of the waiting car. That was where any servant would ride while in a car owned by his lordship. Instead, he opened the back passenger door as if she were a lady of the house.

Mrs. Hughes could count on one hand the times Charles Carson had opened a car door to assist her inside it. The last was her departure from London following her temporary tenure as housekeeper for Grantham House. Her departure then, save for the brush of his hand against hers, was mired by a surprising, gnawing sadness as they saw each other off.

Now she was filled with that same sadness. She couldn't very well refuse Mr. Branson's kindness, which Mr. Carson would no doubt acknowledge. Yet she knew and could discern with clarity that Mr. Carson didn't want their time alone to end despite the reality of their life in service.

Notably, her more-than-confidant didn't extend an outstretched hand to help her and she was grateful to not have to take it. Had their hands touched again, so soon following that charged moment, she was sure Mr. Branson would have observed their altered yet unknown state of their... whatever they were... to the world. Neither was ready for that, not yet.

Charles Carson soon joined her in the back of the waiting car before it set off for the Abbey. Despite his fatigue, he had looked forward to walking home with her on the darkened path once they touched hands and found each other's eyes in the darkness. His eyes widened in disbelief momentarily as to why he wanted that isolation. _That's getting well past walking her to the corner_, he thought with acute awareness.

Trying not to look at the clasped hands of Elsie Hughes as she commenced a conversation with Tom Branson, Charles Carson sighed silently. Not that he had much time to contemplate it; this was not how he envisioned the evening coming to a close. He rejoined the conversation as the car lurched familiarly towards the lane that led to the backdoor of the grand estate. As he opened the door to help her exit the car, he held out his hand experimentally, but to no avail. Elsie Hughes didn't need to be steadied by him this time.

She walked purposefully through the yard with Charles Carson trailing glumly behind her.

To be continued.

* * *

><p>Your support for this story hoping to track and trace the bits of revelations the Chelsie collective have been able to glean has been simply amazing.<p>

Rest assured, I will be milking this half-day for all it's worth. In the meantime, let me know what you think of their progress – in this story and in S5! I love to overanalyze these lovely goobers to bits. Can you tell?!

A/N: _The Starlit Garden_ (if I recall correctly) is a 1923/4 UK Film based on a novel of the same name. Though filmed as if the novel took place in Italy, I'm pretty sure the novel was set in the American South. Some adaptation.

A/N: Of course, Lon Chaney's rendition of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ was a megahit, premiering in the UK near the very end of 1923. It would be conceivable for the film stock to slowly make its way north over a few months' time to finally arrive in Ripon in March 1924. Because the copyright lapsed on the work sometime in the 50's and is now in the Public Domain, you can watch the film on archive dot org. Watch the Flash version and be delighted! I was!

A/N: The streets mentioned in Ripon I hope/pray were actually in existence in 1924. They certainly are today. It was a delightful diversion to Google earth my way through the town as I was writing this.


	6. Chapter 6

This is the 3rd update in just over 24 hours, so please make sure you don't miss the previous two installments related to their shared half-day in Ripon. Otherwise, read on!

* * *

><p>Charles Carson managed to catch up to her to open each door that would usher in their return to their normal lives. They shuffled through the backdoor without a word between them, but it was enough to alert an inquisitive cook waiting in the kitchen.<p>

Mrs. Patmore stood inside one of the doorways with her hands on her hips as the pair removed their coats and placed them on the hooks by the housekeeper's sitting room. "Finally, you two. I was thinking I'd have to send a search party."

"There's wasn't need for one, Mrs. Patmore. We ran into Mr. Branson in the village and he drove us home," Mrs. Hughes explained without further elaboration.

"Well, if you're hungry, I set aside a savory pudding if you'd like it."

"That's very good of you, Mrs. Patmore," the butler responded with forced cordiality. Until that moment, he hadn't thought of food. Now, he was positively ravenous.

"Or would you rather have something else?"

Mrs. Hughes was first to put off the inquisitive cook. "You needn't concern yourself, Mrs. Patmore. If we have anything, it will be in a little while."

_If we have anything_, Charles Carson repeated in his mind. Energized by the possibility that they could have a proper conclusion to their day, he asked the cook with measured nonchalance, "Where is the rest of the staff?"

"The family had an early night and most of the staff decided to do the same."

"And you waited for us? Go to bed, Mrs. Patmore," Mrs. Hughes gently commanded. "I'm sure you're as exhausted as we both are after the past few weeks."

"And then some, Mrs. Hughes."

Despite his focus on salvaging and extending his half-day with Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson was cognizant of the cook's sacrifices during the unending house party. "Remind me tomorrow to retrieve a bottle of brandy for you. His lordship was most grateful for your hard work during the house party that would never end, as was I."

"I certainly will Mr. Carson." Knowing she was not likely to glean any information about their half-day at this point, the cook decided to simply walk away from it until tomorrow. "Goodnight to you both," she called out to the retreating form of Mr. Carson who was now headed to his pantry to deal with Thomas Barrow. He had just returned from seeing the upstairs was secure. Mrs. Patmore eyed Mrs. Hughes with pointed interest as she returned the chatelaine of keys to its rightful owner.

Without a word, Elsie Hughes knew the Mrs. Patmore would be expecting a full report soon. She wasn't sure if the cook would be satisfied with how little information she would actually be given. "Goodnight Mrs. Patmore."

Sighing as the cook walked up stairs, Elsie Hughes retreated to her sitting room for a few minutes. She heard the smarmy tones of Thomas Barrow as the underbutler exited Mr. Carson's pantry. Before she could roll her eyes, she heard a knock on her door threshold. It was Anna and Mr. Bates about to head off to their cottage.

Anna cheerfully reported, "There were no catastrophes while you both were away, I'm happy to report."

"Well that's a relief."

"Did you enjoy yourself, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes I did, Anna. I highly recommend you watch the _Hunchback of Notre Dame_," she responded.

"I'll have to brush up on my Hugo," Mr. Bates quipped. "Goodnight to you, Mrs. Hughes," he added before Anna similarly bid her a pleasant evening.

* * *

><p>Elsie Hughes thought the downstairs was relatively empty now, which is why the distinctive noise of a pot sliding on a grate on the stove brought her out of her sitting room. She walked along the corridor, moving closer to the servant's hall, which was now completely dark. The only lights on downstairs were from their offices and a few lamps burning in the large workspace to her left.<p>

Crossing to the kitchen, she found Charles Carson inspecting the small pot on the stove. She stalked over to him. She stood close but not too close, anxious but unable to stay away. "It's pease pudding," he remarked as he looked down to her. A ghost of a negative emotion fluttered over her features before she attempted a smile.

He realized with absurd satisfaction, "You don't like pease pudding." He couldn't help but grin at finding a crack for another potential rift between housekeeper and cook.

"I never said that," she protested.

"You didn't have to." Despite feeling mild agitation at the sight of his ridiculous grin, she couldn't help but be warmed by his observation. Whether she liked it or not was never really an issue. She didn't enjoy it, and that was that. Mirthfully, he whispered conspiringly, "Mrs. Hughes, your secret _may_ be safe with me."

"_'May_ be safe," Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, provided you keep what I'm about to do secret."

Intrigued and thrilled she answered, "I shall reserve judgment for when I see it."

Swiftly, he retrieved a stool, placing it next to the table dominating the middle of the kitchen. Finding courage, he guided her with a hand at the small of her back. "Sit and wait right here," he gently commanded.

She settled in with her back facing away from the interior corridor. He soon returned holding a bottle of wine and two crystal goblets.

He poured them each a glass before moving around the table to the side closest to the kitchen sink.

"Do you mind if I remove my suit coat, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Why should I mind? Are you planning to pluck a chicken?"

He had no answer but a sheepish look dissolving into a wry half smile. Quickly placing his suit coat on the table, he asked an odd request. "Might I have your key to the store?"

"Why, have you lost yours?"

He had to lie, but it was worth it. "No, but I'd rather have you as a co-conspirator to my crimes."

It disarmed her immediately, causing her to respond teasingly, "From confidant to co-conspirator, I think we're moving backwards, Mr. Carson." With a feeling of delightful warmth pervading him, the chilly unease that had seized him as they walked to the backdoor began to recede away.

Mirthfully, he asked, "How hungry are you?"

"A little, not a whole lot."

Despite the pangs of hunger shooting through him, he shook his head slowly in acknowledgment, plotting. Mrs. Hughes retrieved her chatelaine and reached across the table to hand him the key. Without pretense, their hands brushed momentarily.

He looked at her tentatively, but meaningfully. His plan had worked as he observed her blink rapidly and stare mesmerized at the space where there hands touched momentarily. He was in no doubt that she was thinking back to their hands joined together while secreted away on the bus. But his growling stomach could not be ignored. Bowing his head at her growing, shy smile, he strode to the storeroom just off the kitchen.

Looking around for a moment, Elsie Hughes tried not to watch him shuffle around in search of ingredients for something. He was going to cook, it appeared. _No wonder he supported Alfred_, she thought while taking a deep breath. Her heart still raced from their contact. But she found solace by moving to secure a stool for him on the side closest to the kitchen sink.

After she settled again, he returned with a handful of ingredients, plates, and utensils for an unknown purpose. He moved about the kitchen with grace, as if he were just another seasoned cook feeding the many mouths at Downton.

Mrs. Hughes thought with some pride – this was likely the final act of a day's long showing of Charles Carson the man. She was his sole audience member. With bittersweet awareness, she welcomed the final scenes of their perfect half-day.

She observed as he made quick work of a small pile of cleaned mushrooms before moving to cut small slices of cheese. Grabbing a small bowl, his recipe was made clearer as he reached for an egg from the small rotating tray on the other end of the workspace dominating the center of the kitchen.

His long fingers deftly cracked one egg after another. She enjoyed the simple show immensely. Looking over at her shyly, he smiled at her obvious delight.

He beat the eggs gently before taking his mise en place to the stove. The mushrooms were mildly sautéed. As he found another pan and began heating it, Mrs. Hughes finally broke the silence.

"This seems to be the late-night snack of choice for this household."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Lady Mary and Mr. Blake."

The eggs were settling for a moment after pouring them into the warmed pan with nearly browned butter lining it. Looking back sharply over his shoulder at her, he asked, "How did you know?"

"I heard Mrs. Patmore speaking with Ivy the morning after 'the pig incident.' But, Ivy only mentioned scrambled eggs."

Grunting his understanding, he went silent as he focused on finishing off his first round of cooking. Mrs. Hughes held a breath as he slid the delicate eggs now holding the melting mixture of mushrooms and cheese from the pan onto a waiting plate.

Tentatively pleased, he presented his mushroom and cheese omelette. "Do start without me," he murmured before turning to repeat the process. Though he knew it was difficult to ruin such a simple recipe, he didn't want to watch her have to feign appreciation for his rusty cooking abilities.

He put another slice of butter into the pan, swirling it as it melted. He heard her grind and shake pepper onto the still hot eggs. He could hear the faint scraping of metal on porcelain before silence descended. He closed his eyes momentarily from the odd mix of nerves, hunger, and fatigue. And then he heard it – a soft, faint hum of satisfaction. Raising his eyelids in an instant, he stared forward at one of the tiny black squares of tile above the stove. Rocking on his heels, he swallowed, driven by disbelief that anything could ever match the allure of her wordless approval.

After a moment, she spoke. "What I'd like to know his how she learned to do that. It wasn't from Mrs. Patmore."

He cleared his throat, making quick work of his own omelette before joining her at the table.

"I taught her," he answered slowly with a raised eyebrow. He added a bit of pepper before he tucked into his omelette. After savoring a bite of the soft, earthy, salty combination, he continued. "She was about twelve years old when she wandered down the stairs late one night. I was the only one here. She had awoken from a bad dream and didn't think to look about for Nanny or her parents." He sipped his wine, pausing as the flavor danced about his mouth.

Mrs. Hughes smiled fondly. "She sought out her protector."

He smiled in response before looking back down at his plate, raising his eyebrows as he did. "I was not about to let her hold the pan to make an omelette. Scrambled eggs seemed to be almost too much on their own. She would have learned, but there wasn't another chance."

"Yet she remembered it all the same. Is this another skill you acquired while being Charlie Carson?"

She found satisfaction in the fact that he didn't shy away or heave a heavy sigh before responding. "Yes, one of a few that didn't involve singing or dancing or telling terrible jokes."

"Well this certainly isn't terrible," she responded with a smile. "It's quite good."

They went quiet again, enjoying their late-night feast and sipping their wine.

She was first to finish. A thought was obviously on her mind as she watched him complete his omelette. It was a precious moment to watch him openly during this intimate meal. So often, they would watch each other out of the corner of secretive eyes or spend time putting out fires over quiet conversations.

He looked up after his last bite, questioning her with only the raise of an eyebrow.

"Are you prepared for my judgment?"

He nodded, waiting patiently.

"_Your_ secret is safe, Mr. Carson. I should hope _mine_ is, as well." They chuckled – his low and throaty, hers light and airy. Locking eyes, their mirth dissipated as they found the world fade away with each passing moment, yet again. The only sound that mattered, eventually, was her lilting voice.

"It's late," she murmured between shallow breaths.

"I know."

Yet they didn't move. If they rose from their seats, a magical day set apart from all the others they shared would end.

"Tomorrow's already here," she said with resignation.

His mouth opened as he struggled for words, and Elsie Hughes held her breath - mortified.

It was only a matter of time before Charles Carson said the inevitable, insensitive, inopportune thing. It wasn't a matter of not trusting him, but the consequence of experience. Worried he would say something to make them move back, much further backwards than their wondrous half-day and acknowledgment of being 'confidants,' Elsie Hughes finally stepped down from her perch and gathered her plate and glass.

"Umm, no. I'll take care of that," he said quickly but gently as he picked up the remnants of her supper.

When he turned to place their plates and utensils in the kitchen sink, he heard her speak with a breathless, strangled tone. "I'll say goodnight to you."

He strained to rotate and look back at her, feeling as if the night was unfinished if she left him now. Discerning a strange feeling lingering oppressively in the air, he wondered what he could do or say to end the night on a more complete note. He wanted to feel her warm hand in his again, but he could do nothing more than utter one word.

"Goodnight," he murmured sincerely as she gazed at him. Just one word was for the best, this time.

Remorseful for wanting to leave him, she looked back Charles Carson with a look full of warmth before tilting her head shyly away. "And thank you, thank you for today," she uttered in a low, lilting voice before looking at him one last time. She exited towards the stairs with a quick, determined gait.

* * *

><p>Charles Carson sighed as he finished up his work and trudged up the stairs, deep in thought. Elsie Hughes was a forthright, independent woman. He appreciated her candor, capability, and kindness. But her shyness now was completely unexpected.<p>

Maybe it was a natural consequence after decades of misdirecting his own feelings for her by lashing out about her sentimentality for things over which it was worth being sentimental. Once the panic passed over revealing feelings beyond professional regard, he had always felt remorse before trying to fall asleep in the days that followed.

Another thought occurred.

She had been so daring at the beach – reaching for his hand in that stunningly unexpected way of hers. She surprised him, to say the least, but spurred him to wade into the unknown waters together. Perhaps her shyness was another way of encouraging him to be more forthright and bold in his own right. He wondered how daring he would have to become.

Eventually, much later that night, Charles Carson fell asleep, awash with delightful memories and confusion about the future.

He hoped the following day would bring clarity once they found a moment alone together.

_To be continued.  
><em>

* * *

><p>Ack! Angst! Don't hate me! There's another chapter lying in wait (save for a few more edits) for Downton Day. In the meantime, pour out all your angryangsty thoughts on me! I can take it!

A/N: I have nothing against pease pudding, in fact I've never even had it. It seems like it's a cross between lentil soup, hummus, and porridge (all things I like but not necessarily at the same time). I wanted to have her dislike something of Mrs. Patmore's and pease pudding is a dish of northeast Yorkshire. When uncooked and cold, it is very much like peasemeal brose, a Scottish breakfast food (a type of porridge, I gather). I imagined that a young Elsie Hughes developed a severe dislike for anything to do with pease. Adult Elsie merely tolerates it unless her butler happens to make her a midnight feast. Wouldn't we all like to have that option?

A/N: In Season 4, following the "pig incident," Lady Mary's late night cooking skills combined with that comment about Carson having other plans for the eggs always intrigued me. At last, I found an opportunity to explore a little backstory for that moment. The way Lady Mary and Charles Blake sat at the long table dominating the kitchen was mirrored in this story.


	7. Chapter 7

Previously on Calm:

Eventually, much later that night, Charles Carson fell asleep, awash with delightful memories and confusion about the future.

He hoped the following day would bring clarity once they found a moment alone together.

* * *

><p>There was no rest for the wicked that following day. No possible moment alone seemed to develop naturally.<p>

After a steady stream of guests, the laundry that remained was staggering. Mrs. Hughes had her hands full for most of the day. With some alarm, Mr. Carson wondered if she was using the work as an excuse to avoid him.

The thought niggled away at him while crossing briefly to the kitchen to request that a cup of tea be delivered to his sitting room. He moved to return to his pantry with an edifice etched with concern. A small pout had already formed as he heard a maid in her office reveal yet another problem with the laundry. The maid quickly exited and rushed past, but Mr. Carson barely took notice.

Mrs. Hughes was quickly exiting her sitting room, and he caught her gaze as she started down their shared corridor. Her hair was in slight disarray following the last battle with the linens. He thought he'd seen nothing lovelier in all his life.

Mr. Carson no longer pouted. He looked with longing eyes as she looked back at him. He normally would have cleared the corridor to allow her to pass. But he was rooted in his spot. Inadvertently, he made himself her obstacle.

She slowed only briefly, making his heart speed up in anticipation. It nearly leapt out of chest as she gave his left forearm a slight squeeze before smoothly moving past. It was enough to buoy him after the unsatisfactory conclusion of their nearly perfect day together.

He returned happily to the side table in his pantry but soon deflated upon remembering his next task. A wine shipment was imminent and he wanted to have everything in order in the ledger before he had to begin the task of cataloging and placing the new bottles. Unhappily, it meant Mr. Carson was about to spend a great deal of time in the cellar with Misters Barrow and Molesley that afternoon.

His requested cup of tea now delivered, he sighed heavily before delving into the ledger.

* * *

><p><em>Early evening.<em>

Charles Carson stood resolutely at his desk while dressed in his evening livery. His arm was capably holding a bottle of his lordship's finest wine, tilting it to decant it into a waiting crystal vessel. His head was cocked to the side as he observed the steady stream of deep red leaving one glass container for another.

Elsie Hughes appeared in the doorway wearing her evening dress, shuffling, tentative. He registered her in the periphery immediately but kept his focus on the task at hand. Without his gaze on hers, it gave her the space she needed to begin an oblique way of giving penance for her abrupt departure the previous evening.

"It's rather funny, don't you think?"

"What's that, Mrs. Hughes?"

"You spending all afternoon tending to the wine, and now here you are."

"Indeed."

A sufficient amount now decanted, he deftly set the bottle down on his desk. He could tell something else was on her mind by the way she lingered in the doorway. He tried not to look at her clasped hands at her waist.

"Thank you for my tea earlier, Mr. Carson."

"Daisy brought you a cup," he observed superfluously.

"But you requested I have it the moment I returned from the laundry."

There it was again - they gazed longingly.

Eventually, he bowed his head, bashful, searching for the right words. "Mrs. Hughes, I..."

Before he could even begin to summon the right words, Mr. Barrow knocked on the other open door, completely arresting Mr. Carson's Thoughts. It was a wonder Mr. Carson's eyes didn't raise for the heavens. Mrs. Hughes certainly rolled hers.

The underbutler looked positively smug with the thin line of his mechanical smile. "Mr. Carson, isn't it time to go up? If you're delayed, perhaps I should lead the dinner service. We managed well enough without you last night."

"Hold your tongue!"

"I meant no disrespect, Mr. Carson. I was just merely noting the time." His exit couldn't have occurred a moment too soon. Mr. Carson was positively seething.

"You musn't let him fluster you so, Mr. Carson."

"That's not why I'm..." He trailed off as Mrs. Hughes eyes widened with concern and anticipation. "I must go, beg your pardon."

He exited his office from the same doorway Thomas had occupied to huff indignantly up the stairs with the wine. Perhaps spending an afternoon preoccupied with figures and physical labor had been for the best. What he wanted to do couldn't conceivably happen now. The dinner service waited.

Mr. Carson himself would have to wait until after dinner for a chance at having an uninterrupted moment.

* * *

><p><em>Late that evening.<em>

Holed up in his office again, Charles Carson had grown steadily tired of waiting. It wasn't helped by losing sleep the night before over the energizing yet confusing end to their unexpected and unforgettable day. But he knew the reason for which he waited and it was enough to keep him rooted in his chair until the moment was right. He was often rewarded for this patience, usually resulting in a late night glass of sherry with his... he growled as he struggled over the word in his mind... _confidant_.

At the sound of her laughter wafting through his partially open door, he stared longingly in the direction he would find Elsie Hughes. She had spent the late evening not with him but in the kitchen with Mrs. Patmore, sipping tea and telling her about Quasimodo and Esmeralda from the film adaptation they both enjoyed. He made a poor attempt of not eavesdropping as he tried to make tidy notes in the wine ledger.

As she capably circumnavigated the traps set by Mrs. Patmore to seize any additional information about their afternoon off, he completely abandoned any thoughts of working anymore. Incensed by not receiving any revealing details, he heard Mrs. Patmore head upstairs. Mr. Carson had sent Barrow up long ago, never providing the smarmy underbutler an opportunity to remain underfoot for too long after spending hours with him and Molesley in the cellar. The heads of the household were now alone again.

He heard Mrs. Hughes shuffle quietly towards her door. Staring at the cupboard that shared a wall with her sitting room, Charles Carson rose from his chair. He stood in the corridor outside his door for a moment, torn.

They were in new territory yet hadn't memorialized it or paid tribute to that fact throughout the entire day. Her gentle squeezing of his forearm had only been equal parts comforting and confusing. Even though they occupied the same house for the entire day, he had never felt more separated from her after spending an entire afternoon and evening close by her side.

Hearing the telltale signs of her closing ledgers and securing loose pens and receipts, he stood resolutely as he anticipated her exit from her sitting room.

Elsie Hughes had just turned off the lights to her sitting room when she spied him in the corridor. Not a word was uttered as he stalked closer to her, standing imposingly yet invitingly in her path. Their eyes locked and Charles Carson struggled to say everything that was churning in his mind. His lips thinned to a pained grimace before they parted with a pause.

"Ummm, I would like to have a conversation with you, Mrs. Hughes. But I'm afraid I don't know how to start."

Her eyes fluttered before her hands clasped each other before her waist. "We're confidants, are we not, Mr. Carson," she asked quietly, resigned that there didn't seem to be any other word to describe their... _relationship_.

"Yes, well," he began before clearing his throat. "That's just it. I don't agree with that, not entirely." He paused, watching pain register on her face with her knitted brow. His own, formidable right brow raised in empathy. He tried to cover his faux pas quickly.

"What I mean is, 'confidant' seems an inaccurate assessment." Remembering how she looked at him throughout yesterday, he reminded himself it wasn't a dream. He reminded himself he needed to be brave in order to be worthy.

Gazing meaningfully into her eyes, he concluded "For us, 'confidant' seems... incomplete."

She held his gaze with widened eyes. He was laying himself before her – nervously, helplessly – as his arm swung unbidden at his side.

He started it up again. "Do you agree?"

Her voice was low, quiet. She could hardly believe herself, but she finally responded, "I agree." She paused before asking the question that wouldn't be denied, "Then, what's an accurate 'assessment' to you?"

"I don't know," he admitted candidly in an equally quiet voice. For once, he didn't run from the unknown. He stood and stared it bravely in the face. "But… I would like to find out." One final pause ushered in his ultimate question. "Would you?"

It was as if someone splashed a vat of cold laundry water on her – his offering and challenge sent a chill down her spine. But what remained was warmth – from his steadfast gaze and the possibility of finally moving beyond the point of sharing only confidences. It was a privileged world, but they both wanted more. She was speechless at the thought.

Nodding her assent, she gazed profoundly into his hazel eyes before trailing off to look at the starch whiteness of his shirt and waistcoat.

Similarly losing courage to look her directly in the eye, he glanced down towards her hands, now dangling loose by her side. His large right paw deftly reached out. The back of his fingers gently traced the top of her left forearm, moving slowly down to encircle her soft hand. When she wrapped her fingers around his, his chin quickly rose.

She was staring back at him with that same look they shared in the dark bus and over their omelette supper. It was as if the awkward, trying day faded away, allowing them to return to the conclusion of the previous night. Charles Carson was determined not to waste the precious opportunity.

Imbued with the same determination, Elsie Hughes tugged gently on his hand, retreating backwards into the waiting darkness of her sitting room as he mutedly followed her, in tandem. Not stopping until they were past the long sliver of light from the hallway, she gently sought out his other hand, moving it towards her right cheek.

Uneven breaths filled the air as their eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of her sitting room. She could see his, finally, registering a longing in his eyes that spoke to her very soul. As if they ever were, it was clear they were about to no longer be merely confidants.

His touch was not tentative, but gentle while tracing her cheekbone. His touch was worshipful, the same as if he were fingering the fine edges to the silver frame she gave him. She dropped her left hand from his arm as he grew bolder. Finding respite along his waistcoat, she touched him in a place familiar to her trembling fingers. But this touch was different, in the dark, feeling for each other in ways more than confidants. His fingers finally sought out the soft skin of her exposed neck before tunneling slightly in her hair.

Time slowed as they moved forward, closer and closer to each other. Dreams and daydreams were about to be replaced with the real thing. Elsie Hughes reveled in anticipation. And waited.

She could feel him hovering above her lips, his ragged breaths fanning her face, setting her aflame. The breeze receded, and Elsie Hughes opened her eyes to find him looking worriedly back at the half-opened door.

"Nobody needs to know everything, Mr. Carson," she whispered before gently bringing his gaze back to hers with a hand on his cheek. "Nobody will know what we are, but you and I."

Automatically, his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip as her eyes locked with his mouth. She rose to her tiptoes as her left hand rested more heavily against the anchor of his chest. Proximity reigned. The heat of his breath fanned her again, causing her eyes to flutter shut.

It was then that their quivering lips finally found each other in the dusky light.

They stilled in that shocking moment, too afraid to move a finger, let alone their soft lips.

But move they finally did – apart, for a long moment. There was no going back, they realized with infinite clarity.

They could no longer be merely confidants. One kiss already embarked them on a journey of mutual discovery. There would be no maps or stars to guide them. They would need to rely on each other – hearts, minds, souls, and bodies. Yet another kiss sealed their fate.

Gentle, exploring lips brushed experimentally. Their hands steadied each other, his right hand squeezing her left as their lips locked longer with each pass. Apart for a moment to catch their breaths, she returned daringly to his waiting lips with increased pressure. Her fervor was rewarded.

Overjoyed, Elsie Hughes sighed as his hand released hers to move gently but urgently from the side of her waist to its new home, the small of her back. Her right hand rose to his chest, seeking to rest above his strong, rapidly beating heart.

Charles Carson was sure she could feel each thump of his heart under her fingers just as he could feel his pulse beating wildly under his tightening collar. When her lips faintly parted, he nearly stumbled from the shock of such exquisite pressure.

His low, impulsive moan took her to another world before she realized with stunning lucidity where they were – in her sitting room with the door wide open. Despite the hour and the fact that they were undisturbed, she knew they should soon be asleep in their separate beds.

Elsie Hughes pushed gently on Charles Caron's chest as she dropped from her tiptoes. With a quiet gasp, Charles Carson finally released her captive lips. They breathed deeply in the darkness.

Her soft tendrils caressed his fingers as he gently massaged her neck. He knew that, in the coming days and weeks, it would be difficult not to look on her neck without wanting to reach out and stroke it. To know how it felt, to be tortured by the memory of how he came to touch it reverently, was worth it.

Her eyes were closed when she began, but opened when she finally said his name. "Thank you for yesterday. It was a perfect half-day, Charles Carson."

Swallowing, he responded with a hoarse voice. It was filled with palpable texture, causing her to shiver with its low tone. "It was ours, Elsie Hughes. Just ours. I'm honored to have shared it with you."

Reluctantly pulling away, she whispered, "Goodnight." She left him in the darkness, knowing he would likely stay there for a moment to gather his thoughts and close her door. She headed up the stairs with a quiet, contented sigh.

Of all the things she would remember about the past twenty-four hours, it was a single thought that stuck with her as her dreams beckoned. She would protect their secret zealously, like all the others she kept within her. But this, whatever they were beyond confidants, would remain in her heart where only a few of her secrets lay hidden.

* * *

><p>You reviews are craved and valued. Even if it's not today, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one, eventually.<p>

Depending on what we learn in Episode 3 (and my coursework load), I may or may not continue on with this fic for a while. I am spurred by the new bits of Chelsie we see, and I fear DA might be dominated by other story lines this week. I suppose it can't be all Chelsie/Baxley all the time, but where's the fun in that?

At any rate, I bid you all a happy Downton Day!


	8. Chapter 8

Consider this chapter taking place just a few days before the start of S5.

* * *

><p><em>A week later - after the staff dinner. The family had just gone up.<em>

Mrs. Hughes found a troubled Mr. Carson standing behind his desk. She was happy to be at the close of another day because it meant another few moments stolen alone with him, or so she hoped. Remaining cheerful but concerned, she closed the door and asked, "What's the matter?"

"I overheard James talking about a picture coming to Ripon. I am more than concerned," he remarked with raised eyebrows.

Mrs. Hughes tried not to smile as she tilted her head. "That's a bit hypocritical, isn't it?"

"Not necessarily," he insisted with a duck of the chin. "It's the picture in particular that concerns me."

"Which one is it?"

"An unsavory melodrama - _Woman to Woman_."

Mrs. Hughes wasn't familiar with it. "Children out of wedlock, a woman dying of a broken heart after handing her child over to the woman for whom her sweetheart abandoned her?"

It certainly smacked of a melodrama, one that she gathered few would believe. She tried to not appear bemused at his bemoaning. "I wonder if I should even go the pictures anymore." He sounded comical but she knew better. He was actually considering the idea.

"It's not as if you watched the film yourself. And it's not as if you're bringing back those ideas with you after each film you watch. It's not in the house in some way."

"I suppose you're right. A questionable film is not nearly as loathsome as a wireless."

"What have you against a wireless?"

"It could be in the house – invading the very air around us. Seeing a film is a choice. A wireless on at all times saying God knows what would be an affront to the senses and sensibilities. Lady Rose would never turn it off and heaven knows what ideas James would get as he presided over the main floors. Thank goodness Lady Rose hasn't thought about pressing his lordship for one yet. I fear it's only a matter of time," he completed in a huff.

"I imagine it will happen in the future," she surmised with sanguinity. She rather welcomed a wireless and the music it would bring. "And if James wants to see the film, it would be a waste of his money, not yours. Besides," she added with a lifted brow, "some of those films are worth every penny."

With a glance towards her momentarily, he conceded mutedly, even bashfully, "I can think of one in particular."

Looking down at her clasped hands, Elsie Hughes smiled.

But Mr. Carson was still disquieted. Moreover, he grew increasingly uncomfortable with why he was truly concerned about James seeing that picture, as well as most of the pictures that were being released lately. So many of them were poorly made, or worse, _smutty,_ he thought to himself. Other than the respectable book adaptations he watched, most of the films were full of morals with which Mr. Carson was uncomfortable. But that wasn't it, either. He thought of his own aims while merely imagining walking home in the dark with Mrs. Hughes. His eyes grew wide.

"Perhaps we should cut out the pictures entirely," he said abruptly.

Gaping at him openly, she asked, "'We', Mr. Carson?"

"Yes, 'we.'"

"I have no intention of not going to the pictures because of some silly flirt of a footman is thinking about seeing a film. Have you taken leave of your senses," she asked with vigor.

It only made Mr. Carson more resolute. "I feel it is the appropriate solution."

Mrs. Hughes was less than convinced as she narrowed her eyes. "It is a drastic solution to a nonexistent problem."

He questioned with probing eyes. "You don't think James would get into trouble?"

Mrs. Hughes stood her ground while trying to not bring up what she knew of James' failed expeditions when it came to the now former assistant cook. But it couldn't be helped.

"That's not what I'm implying. James has already learned his lesson about conducting himself at the pictures."

Mr. Carson gaped as his alarm only grew. "What on earth do you mean?"

Tucking her chin, she answered "Ivy more than capably handled the silly flirt."

"And you didn't find it important to tell me of this?"

She chewed on her lip briefly before answering, "That matter was resolved immediately."

"Well, you have convinced me, Mrs. Hughes, with your subterfuge," he sneered before concluding, "No more pictures."

There was a quick knock on the door followed by the sight of an anxious Daisy. "Mrs. Hughes, there's been a last-minute request for tomorrow's dinner."

"I see. Daisy, go to my sitting room. We'll sort it all out there," Mrs. Hughes answered with deliberate calm. Daisy was such a flighty girl – she didn't deserve the brunt of Mrs. Hughes' anger. The man standing before her did.

Left alone for a moment, Mrs. Hughes glared at Mr. Carson, now standing with his arms behind his back. Even though she couldn't see his hands, she knew his fingers were moving furiously in discomfort. "I'll be back in a moment. I still have some things I'd like to say and you need to hear."

Incensed, he stood quietly as she parted.

* * *

><p>He stared unhappily at the partially opened door, seething for a moment. He thought of closing the door with some vigor to take out his frustration. But that would never do.<p>

Instead, he paced about his pantry as he waited impatiently, realizing immediately that things had spiraled out control without warning. His alarm about James behaving inappropriately was well-founded, even based solely on Mr. Carson's own thoughts in a similar situation.

While Ivy wasn't his concern, James was. He would have appreciated some notification that James had not conducted himself respectably even though Ivy handled the situation capably. Perhaps he could go to the pictures, but Mr. Carson also knew he would need to keep his eye on him more closely in the future. Thankfully, no one had replaced Ivy yet.

He walked around his desk again, opening a drawer and finding a small ticket stub. It was from their outing. What James did and what Mr. Carson wanted to do were different. Their ages were irrelevant, that was clear – desire was an ageless wonder. He could easily imagine James made demands merely because he had taken Ivy to the pictures. His own behavior was rooted in his respect for Mrs. Hughes, for their friendship and whatever they were to each other. The situations couldn't be more different. He sighed uneasily at the realization.

Finally, Elsie Hughes returned to shut the door again. She moved in front of the desk, keeping the furniture as a physical barrier between. Hard glares were exchanged, but she could tell he was remorseful. She began quietly.

"You frightened the poor girl. She thinks quite highly of you despite your bluster."

He couldn't imagine why. She had to answer to Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes more. And she had a father figure in her life – Mr. Mason.

Her voice was low and conciliatory as she continued. "I should have told you about James, Mr. Carson. But you can't behave so unilaterally by swearing off the pictures."

He was miffed momentarily at the characterization, namely because it was accurate. His jaw rhythmically clenched. Lashing out without much deliberation is what got him into this trouble in the first place. He waited impatiently.

She decided to take a different course. "I don't wish to alter how you lead the household, but I would like to know what you are thinking and why. It could help me to understand you better. If I knew more about your thoughts on the pictures, I might even agree with you, at least to knowing what they will be watching ahead of time to see if steps need to be taken."

Thinking about walking alone in the dark was mortifying enough. Sharing that thought with her was nearly intolerable. "Why can't we just agree to disagree," he asked knowing that would never do at the outset.

"Maybe we will, in the end, but it will make me feel better. I hope it will bring you some comfort, as well. Just help me to understand," she implored. Her look was sincere and he found himself caving.

"To convince you," he asked.

"If that helps you, yes."

"I would appreciate in future that you inform me if James is not behaving as he should."

"Of course, Mr. Carson." While she didn't understand Mr. Carson's wholesale distaste for the footman, she didn't feel the need to shelter the boy from the butler's high standards either. After all, he wasn't nearly as kind as other footman – like William. _No one would ever be that kind_, she thought.

Charles Carson could discern a subtle rise in her clenched shoulders before they began to drop discernibly. Her beautiful long neck was most visible and alluring to him now despite the harsh, straight line of the front of her frock across her collarbone.

While tension left the air slowly, they were still at an impasse. He could see his behavior upset her. He had seen as much for decades. But much more was at stake, now. Her approval and counsel mattered far too much to him, he finally realized.

No longer content to remain standing behind his desk, he moved around a corner of his desk. He stood awkwardly along the side closest to the door. He looked rather tentative, as if the arm swinging lightly at his side didn't inform her of his unease on its own.

"I apologize for my behavior," he began quietly, even gruffly. It was painful to utter the truth, but she made him comfortable with sharing the truth in the future. "It's in my nature. And it's not going to be easy to change… but I will endeavor to try."

Without a word, she moved closer to him, taking his hand. He looked unsure at her, glancing with alarm at the window overlooking the corridor. Not all of the staff had gone up yet, a fact acutely felt by them both.

Moving backwards, her back hovered close to the barrier that separated them from everyone and everything else. She was aware he didn't explain himself about the film, this time. But his admission was progress enough, for tonight.

"We'll never agree on everything, unfortunately. This will always happen," she murmured while gazing deeply into his eyes. Despite being pleased with his peace offering, it had to be said.

He pursed his lips and sighed, resigned. "I know. But we're alright now," he asked tentatively. If it was anyone else, they wouldn't have detected a note of desperation. But she could, as always.

Roaming, still-awake staff be damned, she released his hand. Reaching between his long arms, her hands ghosted his waist tentatively. In a moment, she found herself wrapped in his arms, her face gently resting on his lapel. Her eyes took in the sloped wall of starched linen hiding warm skin and a beating heart and she sighed. It was the first time they embraced quite like this without the impetus of someone dying. They made another step beyond the realm of confidants.

"We're alright for now."

They were still for a moment before separating, but not without him taking her right hand and kissing the top it.

"What did Daisy need?" Genuinely concerned, he looked and sounded unwittingly fatherly. Though he had an odd way of showing it, he did truly care about the well-being of their charges.

"Lady Rose made a last minute request as a special treat to cheer up Lady Edith – a surprise. We don't have the ingredients needed, that is unless we fetch them tomorrow over in Thirsk."

"I'm not sure why Lady Edith needs cheering," he surmised. Mrs. Hughes had her thoughts on the matter, but they were merely speculative. "Who will be fetching this?"

"I'll have to find a maid to spare."

"I could send a footman or Thomas, but they're supposed to be cleaning the silver." He was silent for a moment before making a decision.

"I could go," he offered out of the blue. Otherwise, he knew, the task was left to Mrs. Hughes. She had far too much to do already.

She blinked for a moment, before pulling back slightly. Her head nearly rested on the door behind her, finding his suggestion unthinkable. "That's beneath you, Mr. Carson."

"As a butler, perhaps. As a..." His mouth hung open, knowing the term confidant was wholly inappropriate at this point.

He caught her gaze, watching it turn from inscrutable to something, dare he think it, _flirtatious?_ Having no answer and quickly losing his train of thought, he settled for a soft, lingering kiss.

Separating for a moment, he almost forgot himself entirely before leaning in again. But she spoke against his lips, sending shivers down his spine at the sensation.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson. And if you think I'm going to stop going to the pictures, then you must be more daft than I expected."

He pulled away slightly, finding fire and mischief in her eyes. Before he could lean back in to steal a kiss from her impertinent, smirking lips, there was another knock on the door.

Both sighed deeply, albeit silently. Mrs. Hughes turned to open the door in a huff to find James standing hesitantly before the door. It didn't take much imagination to determine what was on his mind. Moving past him, she stood slightly behind the footman as he asked, "Mr. Carson, I was wondering if I could go see a film on Thursday in Ripon."

The look on Mrs. Hughes' face was simply priceless, almost too distracting for Mr. Carson to ignore. But he looked sharply at the footman to prevent himself from grinning. He inhaled deeply before leveling with a single, raised brow, "I wasn't aware that was your half-day, James."

Mrs. Hughes moved to retreat to her sitting room, knowing her presence would have made the situation all the more unbearable for Mr. Carson. James was now completely unarmed as he continued, "No it isn't, Mr. Carson. But I'm sure Mr. Molesley wouldn't mind…"

"Oh, so you're quite sure without even asking him," he probed with an amount of vitriol. Mrs. Hughes had already convinced Mr. Carson that preventing the lad from seeing the film out of principle was ridiculous, even if he didn't admit it to her. But the butler didn't have to make it easy on the footman despite the family dinner being without several family members on the requested night off.

The footman clenched his jaw nervously. This wasn't going well, or so he thought.

"You may go on the condition Mr. Molesley agrees to the trade and that Mr. Barrow accompanies you to keep you out of trouble."

"I'm not sure that Mr. Barrow…"

"Those are my terms, James. Be grateful and adhere to them, or stay home. It's as simple as that."

The footman was unhappy with the terms but knew he had nearly secured an evening off at the pictures. "Of course, Mr. Carson. Thank you."

"Be off with you, and take the others with you," Mr. Carson instructed before heading to Mrs. Hughes' sitting room.

Shutting the door and locking it behind him, Charles Carson strode capably towards Elsie Hughes. She had been carefully placing her cleaned china in its proper home. Surprised to find him enfolding her in his arms, her breath hitched as she looked up into his hazel eyes.

"I believe you were calling me 'daft' earlier. Do continue," he exclaimed with alacrity before capturing her parted lips.

Speech left Elsie Hughes and Charles Carson for the little that remained of the evening – neither seemed to mind it.

* * *

><p>So we're heading carefully into the angsty waters of S5 with this one. Consider it getting our toes wet. He has been trying earnestly to explain himself with each episode – his fears, his thoughts on his lordship and the commission, the Archie situation. Even more so, the way they lingered in the hallway after saying he didn't like when they were in disagreement in S5ep2 – I wondered if he expected to end the evening with her over sherry (and perhaps sharing a little bit more…). I wanted to provide more background to that.<p>

Convincing? No? Let me know! Happy Day-Before-Downton-Day!


	9. Chapter 9

At last, we're tracking canon! Set during part of S5ep1. We'll be tracking some of what was left unseen (but most certainly occurred… or so I hope).

* * *

><p>"Are you quite ready for luncheon, Mr. Carson?"<p>

His hands were steepled before him as he stared with a furrowed brow across his desk to the back of the green chair. But his thoughts scattered to the shadows of his mind at the expectant, cheerful look of Mrs. Hughes at his door.

"Certainly, Mrs. Hughes," he answered with forced brightness as he rose to meet her.

"Is something on your mind?"

"Nothing you need to worry about," he concluded as he took the liberty of guiding her out of his office. Before they crossed the threshold, he faintly touched her back before releasing her.

It was a liberty he was beginning to take occasionally, something as natural as her faint touches on his forearm or chest as they transitioned onto the next household crisis. But it was still new enough to cause Mrs. Hughes to blink rapidly with the faint increase and immediate release of pressure on her corset from his strong hand and long fingers. The sensation propelled them forward to the Servant's Hall.

They presided over lunch, as usual, holding court over the corner of the long table. The younger staff spoke of the finer weather they were having, hawing over consumed mouthfuls before planning outings for their upcoming half-days.

But an enterprising footman broke the reverie amongst the butler and housekeeper. Of course, it was Molesley.

"Mr. Carson, were you surprised earlier when they asked you to become chairman of the war memorial committee instead of his lordship?"

Mrs. Hughes pulled the fork from her mouth in a smooth motion as she regarded the ruffled feathers of Mr. Carson. _Well, this is a development._

"I am honoured to be asked, Mr. Molesley, but I have not yet chosen to take the post."

"But surely since the village asked you…"

"I have said my piece, Mr. Molesley, and I will have no more discussion on the matter."

The footman looked helplessly at Mrs. Hughes who was of no assistance. She looked down at her plate, focusing on arranging another bite to eat as the other conversations picked up again.

Without looking, she moved to lean closer to his chair and murmured, "So that's what it was earlier. Whatever your decision, Mr. Carson, it is an hounor."

"It is indeed, Mrs. Hughes," he responded before looking down the table, his fork held awkwardly in his hand.

Mrs. Hughes sipped from her glass as Mr. Carson sat lost in his thoughts. As for her own, she had heard talk of the war memorial committee. Despite many probably thinking his lordship was the "natural" choice, Mr. Carson was a natural leader. Granted, he didn't look the leader as he restlessly played with a small mound of food along the rim of his plate.

Had he been looking up, he would have spotted her growing gleam of mischievousness. Instead, he was caught unawares when she asked, "Which villager offered the post?"

She had seen the small contingent walking to the front door as she inspected one of the upstairs rooms. Before heading to the kitchen to arrange the tea Mr. Carson had requested, she noted the pushy woman coming straight form the post office leading the way.

Mrs. Hughes waited patiently.

Obtusely, Mr. Carson responded in a voice a half-octave above normal, "The entire committee made the decision, of course."

"Come now, Mr. Carson. You know exactly what I mean," she goaded with a murmur.

"Which means you already know the answer, Mrs. Hughes," he responded in an equally quiet tone.

"Perhaps I do, Mr. Carson." _So, Mrs. Wigan it was_. He successfully fought the urge to growl at her cheek, but lost the battle to raise his eyes to the heavens.

Finally, he glanced at her, narrowing his eyes at her gleeful look towards the Servant's Hall entrance, thus studiously ignoring him despite her knowing smile.

His look of agitation, seen in the periphery, did nothing to prevent her amusement. Triumphantly, she looked down at her plate as she gathered another bite of food. She could feel his gaze upon her mouth as it closed around the tip of the fork. Removing it with a bit of flourish, she finally leveled her eyes on his.

Charles Carson's obvious dissatisfaction was quickly dislodged by a flash of something she hadn't seen in the daylight - a lightning flash of desire, sending a shiver down her spine and a thunderous memory through her private thoughts.

The thunder must have rumbled low through his mind, as well, for he coughed and rose from his chair abruptly. The rest of the staff scrambled to their feet as he abruptly gave them instructions to start their afternoon tasks shortly.

Hiding behind an emotionless facade, Mrs. Hughes took pleasure in flustering the flappable butler. But even she knew it was too much in front of their staff. She finished her meal in silence before returning to her office, but not before hearing more about the details of the war memorial committee business. Mr. Molesley and James imparted some helpful facts about the snippets of conversation heard before they exited the library that morning. For her own part, Mrs. Hughes promised herself to make a concerted effort to cut out the flippant remarks or actions until the matter was resolved. After all, he had not yet agreed to becoming chairman of the committee.

The matter of his lordship meant little to her, but knew it would cause Mr. Carson to stumble and hesitate. She could already hear his protestations, his concerns about being placed above his lordship. He would come into and leave this world as an individual, not a butler. After spending half-days letting the individual emerge from his crusty persona, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by the village, it was high time he acknowledged that fact before the world, including his lordship.

She only hoped both men would approach and accept the matter with grace. Only time would tell.

* * *

><p><em>The night of the anniversary party. <em>

They knew there would be days like this. Busy days of bustling staff accomplishing tasks that used to be done by a crew twice their size were all too common. It wasn't the way either would have done it before the war. But they were fortunate professionally, of that they had to concede.

They were fortunate personally. Each began and ended their days looking on their closest friend, their confidant, their private partner in the shadows. On some days, they would scamper across the boundary of propriety to as far as they would dare. They would make small moves, slinking from dusk to dark.

Hands would be held - palms aligning, fingers saying all that their voices could not. Furtive traces over the taut nerves of each slender digit would form questions and declarations. Eyelashes would flicker closed at the sensations, savoring the soft scraping of nails, the friction of fingerprints as they ruminated silently and sipped their wine. Clutching with the force of their convictions, however unadmitted aloud, a squeeze would answer and affirm all that was left unsaid.

On the odd occasion, fingers and lips would brush a hand or a cheek. Stubble would skate gently over rose petal skin revealing the raw earnestness pervading their secret hearts. Scents of sandalwood and rosewater would mix. It would be enough to interweave into shapeless dreams set during that magic time after a long, warm bath, a refreshing wash before the day begins.

In a rush on even rarer days, lips would softly collide like lush clouds on a heated afternoon, serving as harbingers of a cleansing rain. Finding traces of sherry lingering there, it was more delicious than any taste from the finest crystal.

They were small moves. Yet to them, it was stunning progress.

More often, they would place a border between them. They would stare down the line and each other over sips of sherry or tea. The barrier used to be their protection from each other, one that allowed them to keep their secret thoughts hidden. It remained their protection, this time for each other, because their lives did not allow for open courtship, for fairytale endings. But the border would allow for slow, stately progress, moving slowly to the point that most would not take notice.

Just as they served the house, their relationship was to look like a raft of ducks on a pond – moving serenely and stately on the surface with life-affirming, breathtaking movement below. They were moving closer. But each touch, each glance that moved them closer to revealing the words that would define them, would remain hidden from the rest of the world.

Granted, the well-meaning Mrs. Patmore wouldn't be afraid to try to pull the ducks from the water, to expose their work to paddle closer despite not knowing all of their movements. She had noticed some progress, stately or otherwise, after that magical half-day in Ripon. So they devised a plan to keep her from hunting for proof that affirmed her suspicions. Their plotting came easily, but it did arrive at their expense.

Mrs. Patmore's increasing presence over late-night sherry or tea succeeded in making the cook serve as the barrier that kept them apart. She kept them from proceeding too fast to the point of moving noticeably in the new waters they were navigating. If someone noticed, questions would be asked – questions for which they were not yet prepared to answer for the sake of others.

The answer they sought for the question that guided their private moments - of how to characterize themselves beyond professionals, beyond friends, beyond confidants - would maraud about their minds in that space between waking and sleeping. Syllables would ghost across tongues, get tangled in teeth, linger on pursed lips. They would catch there, and they would remain there as long as they kept barriers between them.

An understaffed household and more nightcaps with an interloper would prevent those secret words from spilling out, from being tested, from their relationship from being branded too soon. And of course, dustups would always occur over things that always reminded they remained singular individuals.

But even then, their state of mindful unknowing altered their disagreements. They were tempered by the knowledge that more was at stake now. The battles they fought over linens and silver trays, over greater liberties for their dwindling staff, no longer needed to serve as invisible proxies. They would disagree – plainly, simply.

Yet it wasn't so simple – him, a man of the old guard, bringing up the ranks from behind – her, guiding the way forward with an outstretched hand ready for him to take when he was ready.

She had made it her mission to remind him that change was all around them, bringing progress he could actually welcome.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure I don't need to be concerned about whatever is on your mind?"<p>

She caught him standing aimlessly between the unlocked silver pantry and the side table nearly empty of serving ware from that night's dinner.

"It's quite alright, Mrs. Hughes."

She was unconvinced at his protestations. "Surely it can't be the committee. You managed to strong arm them into accepting his lordship. Well done, Mr. Carson."

He had capably handled the delicate situation of including his lordship in the committee's business. For all his bluster and heavy-handedness, there was a quiet, cunning streak in Charles Carson. Sometimes, she almost forgot it existed. But when it resurfaced, it was simply dazzling.

Earlier that evening, in a public hallway of all places, the twinkle in his kind eyes had resurfaced. His tone had dropped with noticeable aplomb, lumbering over each syllable of her name with glorious luxury. With a simple phrase, he had hurtled their minds to a place of darkness and desire. _Mrs. Hughes... no__body has to know everything._ She had been too stunned to react to the knowing way he uttered those few words. Now, she shivered in remembrance of the last time they spoke of withholding knowledge - their most precious secret - before sharing the first of many kisses.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. No, it's not that," he admitted before locking up the silver pantry and turning off the lamp near the small glass cabinet of keys.

He circuited to the two other doors to his pantry, securing them. It had been a long day, one that required sleep instead of a sip of sherry with a woman who could never be just a housekeeper to him.

"I know it can't be Mr. Molesley and his unfortunate hair dye."

He looked at her with exasperated amusement. His aging footman was becoming more strange despite befriending what appeared to be the calming influence of Lady Grantham's lady's maid.

By the yawn she stifled behind a raised hand, Mrs. Hughes was clearly content with an early night. Thomas was seeing to the nightly rounds. Slumber was in their grasp.

"Mr. Molesley is or will be taken care of. James, on the other hand, is up to something," he confided as he moved behind his desk, turning off the small lamps behind and on it.

"Another picture you don't approve of?"

"No, another girl. Well, a woman. Lady Anstruther, to be exact. She passed him a note at dinner."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"He was leaning beside her while holding a serving tray when she placed it straight in his trouser pocket."

"My, my," Mrs. Hughes remarked with slightly raised brows. She knew nothing of Lady Anstruther, but it wasn't as shocking to her as it was to Mr. Carson.

"Thomas claimed James destroyed the note, but I am unconvinced. The only thing I can say of James is that he did manage to look rather uncomfortable throughout the ordeal.""

Mrs. Hughes narrowed her eyes at that. "And how did you find this Lady Anstruther?"

"Well, she is younger than her ladyship, but even then, it didn't look like age seemed to matter to her."

"Whatever do you mean, Mr. Carson?"

"You're beginning to repeat yourself, Mrs. Hughes. Are you sure you should not be off to bed?"

"In a moment, I will go happily," she said with an expectant look. He continued.

"I found Lady Anstruther's reference for James this afternoon. Her recommendation was dripping with praise. I thought it seemed rather over the top the first time I read it. And…"

"And, what?"

"And after seeing them this evening, it's beginning to make a bit more sense. To borrow from you, Mrs. Hughes, Lady Anstruther appears to fancy James."

"I see," she admitted indulgently. This kind of thing always seemed to shock him, though she couldn't gather why. Men and women wanted who they wanted, at whatever age and in whatever circumstance. That they were cautiously exploring that themselves, at their ages, was a testament to that fact. "Well, hopefully she'll be gone in a day or two and the matter will resolve itself."

"Hopefully so, Mrs. Hughes."

"As for age, Mr. Carson, yours doesn't bother me. Even though we're not young, we're not old either, are we?"

"We're getting on, aren't we," he asked with a knowing smile and a twinkle returning to his eyes. Every single moment about their time of the beach would never be forgotten. References for vacuous footmen would come and go, but the sun on his face, the rush of water on his legs, and her soft hand holding his would never leave his memories.

"You more quickly than I, Mr. Carson," she replied cheekily.

"You just said my age doesn't bother you," he replied with disbelief.

"It doesn't," she replied coquettishly. "I was merely testing your memory," she admitted with a wry smile.

Before he could respond, Anna breezed by towards the backdoor with John Bates trailing behind her. Goodnights were exchanged before the lady's maid and valet stepped out into the night.

Mr. Carson turned off the last of his many office lights while Mrs. Hughes remained rooted in her spot at his door threshold.

_Barrow's on the gallery_, Charles Carson estimated in the back of his mind. His eyes crinkled at the sight of Elsie Hughes standing silhouetted in the doorway.

"In case you were wondering, Mrs. Hughes – your infernal youth doesn't bother me in the slightest."

"Infernal youth – that sounds like it bothers you," she pointed out with amusement. _A mere six years his junior_, she scoffed in her mind. _And besides, he's aged like fine wine._

"Well, if I'm honest. It only bothers me when you use it to incite a revolution using toasters and the like as your weapons."

"That sounds like a challenge, Mr. Carson."

"Yes, you are, Mrs. Hughes," he admitted while bringing her right hand to his smiling lips.

She was speechless for a moment, marveling at his cheeky turn of phrase and smooth movements, before failing to stifle an irrepressible yawn.

"Oh, now I've bored you," he joked before yawning himself and gently releasing her hand.

"And yourself, Mr. Carson - what a feat." Her voice, tired as it sounded, was full of warm regard.

With their doors secured, they trudged up the stairs, brushing shoulders and hands with stealth. Each thought with some satisfaction that sleep would soon be upon them after a long but satisfying day.

Their parting did not include brushing of lips or hands - only looks of joy brought by the delicious intimacy of a shared secret.

Soft smiles lingered on their reposed faces before they each surrendered to sleep in their solitary beds.

Peace and calm would pervade the still night, they assumed without much thought to the matter.

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p>

As always - your thoughts are craved and appreciated. I may not get back to your comments immediately, but I'd like to express in advance how very much I appreciate them. And whether you're watching S5 yet, go and have yourself a fantastic Downton Day! Cheers!

P.S. I know I didn't track the last part of S5ep1 with this chapter. That will hopefully occur in the next chapter... whenever I get around to finishing it!


	10. Chapter 10

Previously on Calm.

Their parting did not include brushing of lips or hands - only looks of joy brought by the delicious intimacy of a shared secret.

Soft smiles lingered on their reposed faces before they each surrendered to sleep in their solitary beds.

Peace and calm would pervade the still night, they assumed without much thought to the matter.

* * *

><p><em>"Come war and peace, Downton still stands and the Crawleys are still in it."<em>

_Singed and sooty, but true._ Charles Carson tutted at the thought of Mrs. Levinson's extravagant return to Downton, realizing he was standing in his overcoat and night clothes on the drive at God knows what hour. The fire brigade had just departed, but a few chairs still dotted the drive.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he grimaced as the acrid smell of smoke still lingered in the air. A number of upstairs windows were fully opened now, exchanging air that could have taken life with one that rushed in with chilling, revitalizing speed. _Mrs. Hughes is going to have a devil of a time airing out the house for the next few days._ His shook his head at the thought of the extra work she would bear with unfathomable grace.

For his part, adrenalin had surged through him from the moment he was awoken from the briefest of slumbers. It carried him forward as he sent the rest of the staff up to the attics while his job, once again, was not yet finished for the night.

He spied a most unkempt footman in his midst. "James, wait one moment. I would like to have a word." The first footman warily regarded the butler, stopping just before the hedge that separated the servant's yard from the stately front entrance.

"Mr. Molesley, when you finish with the chairs, you may secure the front door. Tomorrow will be a long day, so I suggest heading directly to bed after."

"Yes, Mr. Carson," he concluded before motioning for a hall boy to assist with the large chair used by Lady Edith to catch her breath.

Turning on his heel, the gravel crunched under Charles Carson's measured steps towards the bewildered first footman. He surged past him, heading straight for the yard to give the silly flirt a swift dismissal. Despite Mr. Carson's own surprise to be banishing James from the premises before breakfast tomorrow, the footman looked more ashamed than shocked at the whole ordeal. The butler brokered no arguments with the lad, sending him to the attics in short order with the assurance that a reference would be waiting for him before he should be on his way that morning. With his tail tucked between his legs, James retreated to the indoors to regroup and pack his things. A different, perhaps better future was on the way for the lad, although it probably didn't feel that way in the chilly atmosphere of the Servant's yard.

For his part, Mr. Carson remained outside, finding the air slightly more clear. The reference letter for James could wait.

His eyelids opened and closed languidly now – his adrenaline nowhere to be found. He had caught but a few minutes of sleep before the ordeal began. While he wasn't old, he certainly didn't feel young as the long night caught up with him. But still, something called to him to reflect upon every step he had made to ensure the safety of the staff, family, guests, and the house itself.

They had planned for moments like this - conducting drills on duller days that drove surly staff members to make snide comments while they thought Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hughes were out of earshot. They never were, of course.

Something brushed against the tall brushes that separated the yard from the front of the house. Straightening at the sound of a light tread on the gravel path, he turned swiftly towards the opening in the brick wall that led down to the courtyard.

"I would have thought you'd gone up by now, Mrs. Hughes."

She stepped down, crossing towards him standing in the middle of the yard. "I was looking for you, if you must know. Are you alright?"

He sighed, setting the fire torch on the wooden table for a moment. "With one less footman, yes, I will be." Her head tilted at his revelation and he sighed with a raised brow. "His lordship asked me to dismiss James when we were gathered outside a bit ago."

"Heavens!"

"He didn't elaborate on his reasons, but I can only imagine it involved Lady Anstruther."

"Well, James didn't exactly look well-dressed when we were in front of the house earlier."

"Exactly," Mr. Carson responded before shaking his head in disapproval over the whole matter.

"My bet is on him being upstairs. In someone's bedroom," she surmised with a raised eyebrow and knowing look.

His mouth opened, a strangled noise of protest on his tongue. But it wasn't that difficult to imagine. James had not been in his room when the staff headed out of the house, and he wasn't supposed to be helping Thomas with overseeing to the locking up of the house despite being in his livery.

Mrs. Hughes wasn't done sizing up the situation. She thought back to the war. "Ethel didn't receive a reference for being caught out like that."

"As I seem to recall, you unfortunately found indisputable proof of her misdeeds."

"I did. But perhaps his lordship also found indisputable proof for him to request his immediate dismissal. And it doesn't change the fact that Ethel's life was ruined, and James will be getting a reference."

"We don't know exactly what happened with James."

Mrs. Hughes couldn't restrain her unimpressed look, nor did she want to. While they didn't know exactly what happened with James, it wasn't fair – plain and simple.

"If anything, I'm more annoyed for your sake. Once again, you're without a footman."

"Don't remind me," he sighed.

James was going to complicate his morning and his afternoons, for several weeks, he anticipated. Perhaps even for several years, the house would still reel with the departure of each member of the staff. All over the countryside, it was becoming likely that posts were not being filled with a replacement for each lad and lass who left or were dismissed.

Each downstairs pillar that kept houses like Downton standing would be removed, one by one – maid, footman, hall boy, alike. The ones that remained would feel the oppressive weight above them shift, forcing ever greater burdens on the shoulders that remained. His were made of granite, but how he wanted to groan under the weight sometimes. _I've gone 'round the bend,_ he thought with a sigh. _Maybe a footman will turn up eventually._

Elsie Hughes pursed her lips at the thought of their work ahead – picking up the tattered pieces after this frantic night. At the sight of a weary and wary Mr. Carson, she chewed her lip and cocked her head as a look of positive endearment took over her features. For his part, Mr. Carson was swaying to stay upright. _Dear man._ Both desperately needed sleep, yet here they were, alone. They never seemed to have enough of that, she reminded herself. Holding fast to her ruffled blanket, she observed his profile freely.

"Are you alright, Mr. Carson?" Staring off into space, his thoughts had meandered to the point of him nearly forgetting the woman before him.

"It's nothing but a few winks of sleep can fix, Mrs. Hughes." In the last few weeks, he had endeavored to share more with her, exposing his fears about the future more and more. But a tired Charles Carson was not likely to share all that much. Still, a memory from earlier tugged at her.

"Only it felt like I interrupted a dream when I woke you earlier."

He looked down at her slowly, confused by her observation and hesitant expression. He thought back – past the bustling staff about the drive, the fireman bounding up the main staircase as staff brought down priceless works of art and valuable furniture, the shrieking of staff as they descended the Servant's staircases. His eyes closed, and he was transported for a moment.

Humming slightly, his eyes opened wide as he concluded, "It was nothing but a dream, Mrs. Hughes. I'm surprised I managed any by the time you found me."

"Well, it looked as if it was a pleasant dream. I'm sorry I had to wake you." He was bliss itself when she happened upon him, stopping her in her tracks for a moment. He looked years younger – the tension in his face was erased in the moonlight as his lips curled into a sweet, contented smile. How she wished she could have reached for his cheek to feel the growing stubble she would find there. But she was forced to take a different tract – jostling his shoulder to arrest him from whatever pleasant thoughts that had woven their way through his dreams.

Whatever those thoughts were, he didn't seem interested in sharing them at the moment. So, she turned from him then, inspecting the yard in a cursory manner while hiding an enormous yawn. The adrenaline had long since left her. She craved her bed, having never had the opportunity to settle into it before Lady Rose stared banging on every door she could find in the women's quarters. She heard him move behind her, and they both treaded slowly towards the backdoor.

"We were lucky, tonight."

"That we were," she agreed, walking slightly in front of him an extra pace. Once again, she found such solace in the way they complimented each other as professional partners. Though neither had been in great danger, each were eternally grateful to be alive and walking tiredly back into their home.

She had breathed deeply at the thought, relishing the relatively clean air in the courtyard and the fact that she was without a corset. In doing so, the blanket had slipped from her shoulder as she breathed outwards, exposing the upper part of her robe.

Ever the butler, Charles Carson moved to re-secure the blanket over her shoulders. But as his fingers curled around the ruffled fabric to re-secure it, the tops of his fingers traced the long lines of her un-corseted torso. He swallowed. The contraption no longer separated her from him, from the cool night. He tried desperately not to think about this sort of thing, somehow managed to will these thoughts out of him when was a younger man.

But her. Her and this knowing unknown state of theirs conjured up thoughts that couldn't be denied.

Murmuring her thanks, Elsie Hughes moved ahead, seemingly unaware of his halted movements and the sensation she just caused.

But she had felt it. Her body trembled as his long fingers inadvertently sent delicious chills down her spine. It rivaled his earlier touch, caressing her back as she moved past him on the Servant's staircase as the exited the burning Abbey. It had been fleeting, but it had spurred her forward and stuck in her brain. Now she daringly wished he could repeat the movement, lingering longer with his broad hand and long fingers.

That was unlikely, she surmised as she quickly headed through the first door. _If he touches me again…_ Frightened at her own thoughts of what she might do, Elsie Hughes passed through the ante-chamber to the rambling downstairs. She reached for the second handle, not caring of etiquette – only the need to separate herself from the man before her. Her hand curled around the door handle before his low voice caused her to hold fast.

"I was asking you to dance." Her hand unclenched as if she touched a hot handle of a pot on the stove.

Turning, she was dumbstruck with squinted eyes. "What?"

"In my dream, I had just asked you to dance when you woke me."

Her eyes fluttered at the thought. "And what brought that on?"

His mouth opened, unbelieving that he was sharing such an intimate thought. But he continued. "We had just stepped out from a picture in Ripon – there was a band playing in the market square. Not one of those high-spirited tunes, mind – something more dignified."

She smiled softly, diverting her eyes as she did when in thought, when his own orbs overwhelmed her. The safe course, on any other day, would be to stare at her usual looking spot on his person – where a crisp tie could normally be found. But in his haste to fall asleep that evening, Charles Carson failed to fasten two buttons to the top of his nightclothes.

Elsie Hughes swallowed at the sight, desperate not to dwell on his chest and the juncture of his collarbones. She could see silvery hairs, nearly invisible – but not to her, not in this proximity. Her eyes closed to avoid the overwhelming sight.

"Forgive me for keeping you, Mrs. Hughes. You should go to bed. It's been a long night."

She breathed with relief, eternally grateful that he interpreted her closed eyes as fatigue and not something else – something overwhelming, something like runaway desire.

Her voice was a half-octave higher. "You didn't keep me, Mr. Carson. I sought you out. But it has been a trying evening with much to do in the morning."

"Yes. His Lordship and I are supposed to survey possible sites after breakfast," he voiced while reaching for the door himself.

His other hand lingered on her back as they descended the stairs and walked past their dormant offices. The weight of his splayed hand was significant without being oppressive. His hand was warm. Delicious. Innocent yet forbidden, just like the tone of his voice. "I'm glad you found me, even if it meant waking me from a pleasant dream."

"It's what we do, Mr. Carson. We've long prepared for those moments," she reminded warmly and imminently proud of herself for not betraying herself with her voice.

"I know," he murmured. "But talking and doing are different things, are they not?"

"Indeed," she intoned in that crisp way of hers. When she was tired, her brogue became more pronounced. He secretly thrilled to hear it roll off her tongue during their nightcaps after a trying day. "As are dreams and reality."

He removed his hand from her back reluctantly, remembering the letter of reference he needed to write for James. Mr. Carson would be curt in the morning, far more curt than he would likely to be now. He opened the pantry door closest to her sitting room, entering it before turning to find her at the threshold.

He knew it was absurd to do so; knew how hollow his promise would sound after his own distinction between words an action. But words still tumbled from his mouth in a near stutter. "Perha, perhaps we will dance one day."

His discomfort placed them on equal footing. She relaxed, growing more confident at his bashful promise. "Perhaps we will, Mr. Carson. Until then, I'll keep to your vision."

He half-smiled at that, his right cheek tugging with greater ease than in years past. "But it wasn't your dream."

"Perhaps it will be later," she intoned playfully before becoming daring. "Or perhaps it will be reality. Someday."

His eyes widened as he remained silent. His right hand, hidden behind his considerable frame, unclenched and grasped the cool air of his pantry. The urge to place his hand across her back – to feel her body move under his palm and fingers as they circuited around in a waltz – was powerful. But before he could cross to her, to voice unspeakable thoughts and commit undoable deeds, she was already retreating.

"Don't write a novel," she jested while studiously avoiding his partially opened pajamas. "Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes."

He didn't write a novel, but Charles Carson did hum a waltz played at Lady Rose's ball as he penned his letter.

In their dreams, Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes danced divinely and without interruption.

* * *

><p>So, we're more than a few episodes behind canon (not that every single week has given us much to go on - like THIS week - has it?). I do apologize for my tardiness - in the update and my reviews. RL has been quite the bear (*shakes fist* about papers and endless reading assignments).<p>

Let it be known I appreciate every single thought you share. I'd love to hear from you about this one.


End file.
